


Smiling In The Dark

by CarrieJames



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Abuse, And like, Angst, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Barista Louis Tomlinson, Boys In Love, Emotional Manipulation, Fluff and Mush, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Louis is the king can I get a hell yes, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Personal Growth, Public Humiliation, Sad with a Happy Ending, Tea, Underage - Freeform, also like 80 percent of this is just English winters being cold and dark, and not the fun kind, but what the hell, easy relationships, hopefully its kind of cute though, im a sucker for fluff tbh, my boys love love, no smut : (, the auther can't spell, the tags sound kind of scary to be honest, they're really sweet and cuddly and soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2020-09-28 01:30:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20417648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarrieJames/pseuds/CarrieJames
Summary: Harry Styles has rarely seen these silver lined clouds that everyone promises him.He's never had white picket fences, and his smile has never quite been true. Life for Harry Styles has always been hard. He knows how to cope... or he does a good job... he thinks.Aka: 18 year-old Harry is still ballancing a mix of love and hate for his father, and he really needs to make up his mind. Maybe 21-year-old Barrista Louis Tomlinson can anchor him into place, maybe Harry can find a little silver-lining-sunshine on his rainy days.





	1. Gingerbread man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry meets a kind blue-eyed barista who has a habit of spoiling him to bits. He may have payed for his tea, but he gets a whole lot more than he expects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiiii! So, just before I start this, I just wanted to put a little disclaimer in here. Yes, you probably guessed it already because I'm ridiculous and embarrassing, but if you hadn't, this is my first time posting on AO3, and I'm just a little tiny bit scared (and inexperienced, help).  
This fic, although it's nowhere near finished yet, already means a whole lot to me. It's coming from a really dark time in my life, where much of what Harry is experiencing/feeling hits a little too close to home. Basically, this is really personal so please be kind? Also, in no way are any of the things happening in this fic representative of what really happens in any of these peoples lives... or at least... I don't think they are??? My poor Harry, I really did one on him in this and I'm sorrryyyyy :(  
As a side note, though, heaven forbid, you're going through anything similar to what Harry is, I just wanted to let you know that you are not alone, you are worth so much more than you could possibly imagine, and that people CARE. Most namely, Harry Styles, our King Louis Tomlinson, the now considerably less blonde Niall Horan and the adorable puppy Liam Payne.  
Anyway, I'm going to stop with the BS now (well... what can I say, I do talk some shit in interviews) and get to the point. This is my child and you must love it like I do, or you know, drop your criticism into the comments if you want, actually please do, I really need help ughhhh.

Harry would give anything, everything, to start over. He'd give his whole world, every material item he owns, to find out where it was that he went so terribly wrong, and to pick up the scattered shards of his past where they lay in the mud. With them, he thinks, he'd build a new life for himself, make fewer mistakes. He'd be stronger, fearless; he'd always fight for himself and what he knew was right. He'd escape the hellish circumstances that brought him to where he is today, follow the red ribbon of fate in a brand new direction and not once would he turn back.  
Sadly, such dreams are impossible to fulfil, fanciful to say the least. In every shape and form life has been cruel to Harry, he feels like he's experienced some hellish derogative, and whilst he will fiercely detest any and all self-pity, he's also just an average 18-year-old with a sob story to tell, and no one to listen to it. He'll allow some leeway for himself, and a little hyperbole never killed anyone (he's also a drama queen at heart and he'd be hard-pressed to admit it).   
He does chastise himself for the selfish thought though, he knows full well that life sucks for everyone, and that with such negative, messed up thoughts, he'll probably never get any better and he's got to get better. Got to get better. 

He's 18 now, and as his father often reminds at him, he aught to have his life under control, he should have a plan for the future and an unlimited insight into what he wants to do with the years stretched out ahead of him (actually, it would be more true to say that his father has already imposed definite plans onto Harrys life regardless of Harrys wishes, but that's an argument that makes Harry feel even more depressed, and he doesn't need depression added to todays mix).   
Besides, thoughts like this only serve to make Harry boil at the injustice and if there is one thing that is most dangerous to be around his father, it is angry. If he was, his father would eat him alive, come at Harry like a mad man with rage and violence to top anything Harry could ever defend himself against. Even if he accidentally implied that his father had done something wrong, Harry would be a dead man. Hell, even when Harry is feeling grateful, the antitheses of angry, his father reads it with a guilty conscience and bang. His world turns red. Today for example, Harry had slipped up, mentioned that he'd felt unwell and a little shaky, he was pondering out loud whether he should take a bath and he had his father coming for him before he could even blink, angry, so angry, supposedly because Harry was unhappy and trying to make his father feel guilty about it. Harry isn't, wasn't angry at his father, wasn't trying to start anything, and yet here he is, half an hour later, with the man in an uncontrollable rage. His father is up in his space, getting as it seems angrier by the second, and Harry's terrified.  
It doesn't stop there even, doesn't cease until Harry's shaking all over, and the man is sneering down at him, towering over him as he threatens Harry with kick and slaps, screaming at Harry, repeating over and over that Harry is disgusting, spoiled, selfish, that he has to apologise. Harry agrees desperately, and thank God, it's apparently satisfied his need to dispel the 'challenge' he saw in Harrys eyes. He shakes his head disappointedly even as he relents, taking a step back and a single solid slap across Harry's face, a move designed carefully to remind Harry that his violent threats are very real, and with a sigh he storms away, muttering that he's back to work again before Harrys little sisters get home. Its around a half an hour later still that Harry peels himself from where he had slumped to the floor, and when he does, he continues as always, dedicated solely to surviving and to hiding.   
He leaves the house with a coat and a scarf, clutching his leather notepad in the palm of one of his hands, stumbling down the path with the breeze brushing his cheeks. He thinks maybe if he walks fast enough, he can walk away from his thoughts too. The further he walks, however, the stronger his heart seems to beat in his chest, thumping louder and louder until he can feel the rattle in his teeth, the burning at the back of his throat from inhaling the cold air too much too quickly. He feels the panic constricting his chest, and his fingertips sweat enough that it gets hard to cling to the smooth leather of his most prised possession. By the time he reaches the little coffee-and-bakes shop just off the high-street, he's accomplished little more than a blind panic, and his thoughts are spinning so wildly that he has to use every last scrap of his focus to sculpt his face into something that could pass as normal. He feels wild. Feeling and thoughts and heartbeat thundering like wild horses.  
The coffee-and-bakes shop is named Miracles, rather fittingly, and is tucked away in an 18-century alleyway, clustered with an over-priced card shop, a charity shop and a small barbers. It's a little tiny, with not much more than a counter and a spattering of miss-matched chairs and tables, one highlight to the seating, however, is a tiny two-man table hidden behind what was once a wall that divided the shop into two separate rooms. The wall was half demolished when the new owners took over, and the little nook provides Harry's key to sanity.   
Pushing his way through the door, he keeps his head down to the ground, chin tucked into his thick scarf, his shoulders are slumped so that his hair falls curly into his eyes, providing shelter from the outside world. Between the dark blue bruise at the highest point on his cheekbone, the gash above his brow that's still hasn't quite healed, and his shaking hands, he knows he must look quite the sight. If only they knew they were only the tip of the iceberg for what lays underneath his heavy coat.  
The air is warm with baked goods and rich with coffee beans, soothing his tense shoulders if only a little, and he rounds a couple of elderly customers in pursuit of his much-loved table. It's only really once he's hidden from everyone's sight that he can take a single full breath again, heart slowing its rabbiting a little with the deep stretch of his lungs. Breathing still doesn't come easy, but the single deep breath that he is able to take is calming like nothing else could be, it even loosens his lower stomach enough that his abs have a seconds rest from their painful clench- its an old habit of his to clench every muscle in his body until they burn like fire, an old habit that prevails subconsciously more often than he realises, he may feel completely relaxed only to suddenly cramp up somewhere strange, and realise that he was completely tensed. Its probably a good thing, considering he doesn't go to the gym as often as he'd like to, but terribly bad when he can hardly breathe as it is.  
From where he's sat, the sounds from the room are muffled and peaceful, reassuring that although he has no prying eyes, he's not alone. He's in a public space, where he's mostly safe and warm. Most importantly, he's not at home. He's lost to the world, like a soldier in camo.  
It takes a little while for Harry to gather enough confidence to leave his little sanctuary, even for the pot of sweet tea he knows is calling to him from behind the counter. He knows it'll make him feel a hundred times better, but the whole going up to the counter and making eye contact and talking to whoever is on shift is a little nerve wracking. If he's lucky, it'll be the little old lady that calls him love and slips a little block of fudge onto his saucer, but he would be a fool to ignore the voice he can hear for ideas so trivial as luck. The person-Harry thinks its a young boy, probably a little older than Harry if the rasp is anything to go by- is clearly quite bubbly and loud, not as loud as the blonde Irish that often takes his order, but it still commands Harry's attention just as much. He sounds happy, teasing a little if the laughter of the elderly couple is anything to go by, and Harry would definitely have remembered that voice if he had heard it before. He hasn't. So this person is new, and he's going to have to walk up to him and ask for his tea. Harry's heart sinks into his abdomen at the thought so he waits, waits until the voice has stopped speaking (so he's sure he's not going to be interrupting anything or accidentally attracting the attention of any more people) and then when he thinks the chatter in the tearoom has reached normal customer level, he abandons his table and creeps around the corner and oh shit, no amount of waiting could have prepared him for what he finds.  
So he was right. The voice did belong to a boy- a man really- that looks a few years Harry's superior and a whole eon more handsom than Harry had ever expected. He's all shaggy brunet fringe and auburn stubble, blue eyes and thin pink lips. He's nothing short of beauty, and incomprehensibly out of Harrys league. His stomach still has the audacity to flutter though. As Harry reaches the counter, he pretends to study the specials board just above the guys head, doesn't want to get caught staring or anything. The man looks up, Harry can feel it, and Harry meets his eyes, desperate to get this done quickly so that he can retreat into his corner and mourn the loss of the I-don't-do-crushes pact that he made with himself a couple of years back. The man speaks first.  
"Hi there, what can I get you?" He asks softly despite the clatter around them. Harry is pretty sure he'd hear anything this man could say in the midst of a hurricane, that's how tuned his ears are to hear it. It's probably embarrising.  
"Erm..." Harry stutters, mind gone blank for an awkward second before he manages to mumble an equally quiet "tea please". He's bright red. He just knows it. The man smiles, and Harry's heart stutters again.  
"Excellent choice. I'll bring it around for you when it's ready, yeh?" He replies, and Harry nods once before he places the correct change on the countertop and scurries off to his hideout. He doesn't think he's ever felt so exposed, with the mans gaze pricking into his back, but he thinks he does a good enough job of walking away without tripping over his own two feet. If only he could tell his hands to stop shaking and he'd call the whole thing a success, well, aside from the broken pact, but.. what is Harry if not a dissapointment onto himself? and well, with that thought, he instantly feels his heart shrinking again, pailing in his chest where the man had him feeling colourful. It's true, is the thing, Harry has always been a dissapointment. A let-down. An unfulfilled aspiration. Wether it be according to his father, any number of family and close friends, he never was, is not, and will never be enough. He is, very simply, and in it's truest form, bad. He's flaky, timid, damaged goods with a whole wealth of expectations riding on his shoulders. No matter which way he turns, no matter how good his intentions may be, he is always a cause for anger, for dissapintment, he can never get it right. Ever since a child he has been on the cruel recieving end of deception and deliberate misunderstandings. His father is a conniving manipulator, born to a mother who cared just as little as he does for Harry, and grown in a world that turned him sour, curdled like old milk forgotten in an empty fridge. His father, no matter how disgusting to Harry, is also very good at pretending, smiling like he has an audience as he grips Harry's shoulder with a bone-crushing grip, sneering though his gritted teeth at Harry, telling him to smile, to be normal now, because no son of his could ever taint his perfect image in the public eye.  
There have been a few, of course there has, that've seen through the paper-thin lies, and although Harry is sure they are good people really, all they ever see is a gossip, a ticket to conspire about the Styles' kid, and his bruises and the bags beneath his eyes. They never want to help, and if they do, then it's never for the right reasons. Harry recons that finding someone who wanted to help would be useless anyway, after all his father has the eyes of the law watching out for him. His father has connections, his wife works in the court room, and his money gets him bail. His friends are either blinded by his manipulation, loyal to a man that they belive could do no wrong, or part of the same disgusting crowd, looking for crime and destruction, brains spoiled by money and false politics.  
It's often hard to tell the mislead from the misleading. Harry has learnt this all the hard way. He learnt it good and proper the day that he found his own best friend testifying against him in the court room, her family chosing to stand behind Harry's father and prosecute Harry at the age of 15 for somthing he could never do. Harry isn't even sure what his fanciful 'help' would entail. He just knows that somehow, in some way, life has to be better than this, and even if it meant leaving everyone he knows, his family, his friends, this country behind, he'd do it to find a better life. He knows he needs to be his own knight in shining armour, he's already tried to be, but what he knows better is that the next time he tries, he needs to do it right. He needs an accomplice. Thinking about this though, only serves to make him more sad by the second, thinking of all the people who still surround him, and of how many people he's lost. He's completely alone, completely terrified, petrified like a spooked horse and exausted after a lifetime of learning to always be this way.  
His head throbs in tandem with his heart as he thinks of the new bruise forming ontop of the old ones, of the hands and the words that put them there, decorated him in the cruelest of ways.  
He jumps about a mile high when a pot of tea is placed before him, but he's soothed by the kind smile and the blue eyes that brought it to him, the tremmor in his bones simmers quickly into something more managable. He murmers a thankyou, looking up to find those eyes lingering on a point just below his left eye, flitting up to his browbone as Harry ducks his head in reply. He knows he's been spotted, and he feels sick at the thought, playing determinedly with the edge of his napkin in a daft effort to appear busy enough that the man won't ask any questions. Harry doesn't want the pitty when the man sees through his lie, doesn't want the man to pretend he cares, doesn't want to be a disappointment. Above all else, he wants to be careful. He knows that his heart is yearning for a better half, when what he needs to be is careful. Secretly, he just doesn't want his bruises to be the only thing the man sees when he looks at Harry. By the time Harry looks up again, the man is gone, and the ceramic teapot is the only evidence that he was there, gingerbread man sitting proudly decorated at the side of his plate.

Walking home, Harry feels a strange kind of numbness, the sort that only comes after a heavy, exhausted feeling. He'd spent the better part of the afternoon curled into his corner, sipping cold tea until the guy from behind the counter had clocked onto the fact that Harry was far from leaving, and then every time his tea grew cold, he always had a steaming replacement. Harry would have stopped him certainly, since he didn't have any more money to pay for the refills, but Harry was always much too engrossed in his writing until the man was walking away again, deed already good and done. Harry really didn't think he was due such kindness, but he also didn't have the guts to go back up to the counter and tell him to stop. He was very much caught between a rock and a hard place.  
When Harry had finally accepted that it was time to head home, and his last hot cup of tea was sufficiently drained, the sun had left the sky in a pitch darkness you can only find during the winter. The air was frigid, bitingly cold and he shudders as he steps into the night, air swirling in tangles at the nape of his neck. It's only just after 5, but the streets are deathly quiet, the only noise coming from the motorway just East of the town. Street lamps stand tall in the mist, condensation making the grass sparkle in the orange glow, and the peaceful atmosphere almost puts Harry at ease. If only it wasn't for his destination, and the numb kind of hurt that springs to mind when he's reminded of just that.


	2. Starlight Star Bright...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is dragged to yet another fancy dinner at which he must impress his fathers colleagues.  
He does have one friend at the gathering though, and though he might not know it just yet, that friend might not be exactly who he thinks he is. Six degrees of separation they say... and this friend might become closer than Harry thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter was a little shorter than I though it would be... oops? (hi)  
Either way, I'm pretty happy with how it's turned out, so I hope everyone enjoys.  
Thanks for reading! It's completely besides me how so many people have even considered giving this a read, and it means the world. Again, to anyone who has been through/is going through what Harry is in this, and really just to anyone who needs it, there are always people out there who care for you, even when you feel completely alone.  
Also, I'm always up for meeting new friends, so feel free to drop by for a chat anytime!  
Hope you enjoy!

"Awwy! Upps!" Amelia whines, little arms stretched towards Harry as he bends at the knee to scoop her up. She giggles happily, hiding her face in his neck when she gets her way, and if Harry wasn't completely smitten before well... consider him long lost to the charming little girl. Her button nose is cold pressed to his skin so he swooshes her over to the thermostat with a flourish, tickling her sides to find a few extra giggles, laughter ringing through the house like carol bells. They play for a little while longer together, acting out silly games with the contents of the dress-up box, becoming pirates, and nurses and cowboy-bunny-rabbits, the clothes they adorn becoming more and more mixed up the longer they play, until they both resemble something akin to one of those children's books where the pictures can be mixed and matched. At the moment, Emily has become half-pirate and half doctor, little bunny tail strapped to her waist with a bright yellow firemen's hat perched atop her head. It's insanely cute, and Harry snaps a photo of the moment to so that it's treasured; captured in his phone forever. They find that, just as the saying goes, the time flies as they're having fun, and the early afternoon moves into evening before they even realise it.  
"Is it dinner time babes?" Harry asks once he notices the time, voice raised a little in hope that the other little pair of ears in the dining room will also catch wind of his plans. His hopes become true when only seconds later, a shock of white blonde hair peeks around the corner nodding and cheering wildly for dinner, and for a second, Harry is startled just how much she looks like her sister, her curls, which aren't the least bit tamed by her headband, are perhaps the only distinguishing factor between the two. They're both startlingly blonde and blue-eyed, faces the same shape, lips pale and thin. They seem to have taken mainly after their own mother, where Harry has taken almost wholly after his own, and whilst they may share the same father, and therefore at least a portion of the same genes, Harry doesn't really look like either of them. He's particularly fond of Bethan's curls, as he often remarks that they're the only similarity tying them together. He takes special care of them.  
Thirty minutes later, and Harry has successfully served dinner to the two hungry girls at the table- just some simple spaghetti with a cheese sauce that always goes down a treat- and both of the girls are thankfully very content with their portions. It's here that their parents find them, Harrys stepmother Sian taking over from Harry where he's encouraging Bethan to finish her plate, allowing Harry to make a hasty move upstairs to his room, hopefully before his father has finished changing and decides to come down. Things aren't that simple though, and Harry supposes that they never really are, and Des catches Harry before he's even finished placing his bowl in the dishwasher. Harry tenses with his presence, face throbbing with the memory of their last encounter and thanks the lord that the girls are home, knowing that Des is always mindful about what they can and can't see. It makes it a little easier to breathe.  
"Harry." Des calls his name, and Harry knows that tone all too well, it's a command.  
"Yes father" Harry submits instantly, knowing that it's the only way to avoid an altercation that he really doesn't want.  
"I have a conference tomorrow, a dinner of sorts for the patrons. I want you there." Des rumbles in that tone that never gave Harry any choice and so Harry agrees, knowing that the evening is bound to be one filled with fake smiles and faces that he sort-of-knows but can't for the life of him place. He'll hate it, and he'll have to aim to impress anyway. As it turns out, the conference/dinner party/excuse-to-suck-up-to-the-big-guns is held on a Friday evening- time he would ususally spend in his beloved cafe much to Harrys very obvious annoyance. He tries not to let his foul mood show too outwardly, though he supposes he mustn't do a good enough job, as he ends up being 'escorted' straight from the school gates and home by his stepmother in her massive Range Rover.   
Harry susects, always has done, that his father knows just how much misery he puts Harry through with his incessent need to plough him through the whole engineering carrer path, and the ride home that he recieves is just further proof, leaving Harry no choice but to focus on getting prim and proper after what was already a long and hard day. No means for any escape. He still complies quietly despite it all, even despite his desperation for his bed, and drags himself into a steamy shower as soon as they arrive home, singing softly as he thinks through a million things, circling the inevitable anxiety he feels when he realises that he will be expected to impress tonight. His father will settle for social perfection and nothing less, Harry must be at his best no matter what. With his hair tamed, his suit and tie neatly pressed, and his cologne splashed in sparing amounts, Harry is ready and waiting at the front door in perfect time.   
"Nice" Des says, as he slips his own shoes on, and Harry breathes a sigh of relief with the knowledge that he's jumped the first hoop of the evening- becoming elegantly masculine, he's supposed to dress to catch the female eye (any female eye), to exude importance and to appear much higher up on the social scale than they actually are.   
The suit he's chosen is one of three, and eye-wateringly expensive in a way that makes Harry feel uneasy and tense as he fiddles with his crisp lapels, rolling his shoulders to relieve the muscles before he begins cramping up. His father ushers him outside then, pressing the button on his fob to open his chosen vehicle for the night, the lights flashing bright orange in the fading light. He's chosen the gunmettle-grey Jaguar f-type, a name Harry only knows through his fathers insistence for his son to know the name of every car that 'his' company ever made, and the interior is excessively decked out with all the gadgets and seat warmers etc... (Harry can't be bothered to keep track of it all, and don't get him wrong, he's not ungrateful and he knows how fortunate he is that his father has money, but it doesn't interest him one bit) The car that purrs and shines and is sleek enough to get away with it. Absolute perfection in his fathers eyes, and Harry actually envies it a little, wishes he could be so perfect.   
Actually, as Harry thinks about it, he recalls from a few years ago his father trying to use the car in a list of ridiculous metaphors for how he wanted for Harry to behave. 'Son,'he said, 'look at this car, what do you see?' To which Harry replied with 'a car?' in a tone that conveyed his obvious confusion. 'No!' Des had snapped and Harry flinched (he hadn't yet learnt how to avoid his fathers anger, and it scared him terribly) 'you don't sell just a car, Harry, you sell the image. You sell the personality. You spend months deciding which brackets to use, which paint, how it should sound when you close the door. We sell the car like it is a person. It must stand out, but it must be calm, it must be charming and sleek and modern and retro and everything else in a perfect balance.' Des had ranted in a fit of words, tone emphasizing just how important this was for Harry to hear. 'When people see this car, Harry, they see much more than just a car. That is what they must see tomorrow, son, when they look at you. They mustn't see just a boy. They must see so much more.' Harry had only been 13 when Des had tried to explain that particular metaphor, and though Harry has come to understand the principle with time, he still thinks it's a fat load of BS to expect Harry to take example from a fucking car of all things.   
A grand and stately home is the chosen place of meeting, all beautiful gardens and tall pillars standing like book-ends at either sides of the heavy oak doors. There are rows and rows of windows breaking up the solid brick walls into even chunks, twin balconies sunk into the building perhaps just as reminders of the expences the owners went to when building the place, and they seem to serve no function what with a grand verander hugging the lower levels. There are delicate flowers in each of the plant pots, decorating the place with whites and blues that would never normally be found outside at this time of year, most likely sourced and planted earlier in the afternoon during the preparations of the dinner. In summary, the house is grand and expensive, too large to be any brand of personal and Harry hates it. Loathes every tense step he takes towards the damned place, stiff and shaky with a hand pressed uncomfortably into his back. 

"Harry! Its simply wonderful to see you!" Harry hears the moment he steps into the ballroom, the same greeting he hears time and time again in places like this- nothing but sweet words from cold faces. He hears it several times in fact, from countless faces throughout the night, and though the wording may differ, the meanings never change. Harry is polite, and returns it with a kiss on the cheek regardless.   
"I hear you're studying business like my Tommy! Smart choice, son" -another way to pry for Harrys confidence, measure how hard Tommy must work to be better.  
"Isn't the caviar simply to die for?" Is one designed to figure how cultured the boy is, a trap for Harry to fall into, and be judged harshly for it along the way.  
"Are you looking for a place at Oxford?" -can be simplified to a harsh 'how smart are you, really?' 'Have you really what it takes?'  
"Following in your fathers footsteps I presume?" -sometimes refers to Des' managerial position at Jaguar Landrover, and sometimes... to less savoury activities. This question is always the hardest to reply to.  
The night follows the same pattern as always, time spent greeting people with his dimples (and not the carefully concealed bruise just above), charming them thoroughly until they are blinded to his bitter disinterest (and to his hurt). He's poised and polite and hostile, competitive and ready to challenge any doubt they may have regarding his ability to follow the same path that his father took. If only it wasn't all an act, and Harry might actually have a successful future lined up for himself. What a hostile environment to work in though...   
There is only one person at these things that Harry can drop his egotistical front with. One person that's seen through it seemingly from the very start. One person who asks 'how are you?' and really means it. Harry is only a little embarrassed to admit that the middle-aged man whom he met years back is the closest thing to a friend that Harry has outside of the staff at Miracles- the coffee shop he frequents so often.  
"Harry! How're you holding out, mate?" Harry hears after 2 hours of relentless meaningless conversation, and he almost cries with the momentary relief.  
"Mr. Deakin! It's really lovely to see you!" he exclaims, and it's not even fake.  
"You too, son" Mr. Deakin agrees, and Harry knows that the older man hates these things almost as much as Harry does, and whilst they may have never said it out loud for fear of being overheard, their conversation has always held secrets hidden in punctuation, meanings conveyed through tones that never are quite what they seem to be. The first few times that they met, Harry was startled by the way Mr. Deakin studied Harry so carefully, he was a little fearful of what lay behind the mans gaze but Harry soon learnt not to worry about that, as it soon became clear that the man knew a lot more about Harry than most, its been more than once, actually, that Mr. Deakin has offered the younger boy a safe place to stay. Harry hasn't the slightest idea how much the man knows, never mind how he might have come to find the secrets, but its obvious that he both knows enough, and is kind-hearted enough to care. That alone is enough to put him in Harry's good books, and keep him there. Their conversation is short, but easy and relaxed as it flows, and a calm feeling settles in Harrys chest, comfortable like he is with a close family member, like he supposes he would be like with his father if it weren't for the obvious.  
"I've been well thank you" Harry replies, and what he really means is that he is coping. "How're the kids, anyway?" He adds   
"They're all growing up, as I suppose they do" the man replies, chuckling lightly as he reminisces "The twins are almost 5, can you believe it?" And no, Harry can not. He may never have met the family, but he remembers the first time he had a proper conversation with the man at just 13. He was bored out of his mind, and the older man had entertained Harry with stories about his new-born twins and the cuteness that came with them. To think that they're already nearing 5... it's hard to even comprehend. Harry replies with just that, and they spend the next few minutes speculating how the time had gone by so fast. It ends all too soon however, when yet another snotty nosed manager-of-something approaches and then butts in with absolutely no concern for politeness. Harry smiles apologetically towards Mr. Deakin, but he's returned with a friendly pat on the back, and a whispered reminder that Harry always has somewhere safe to stay before Mr. Deakin is gone again. 

At some point much later into the night, Harry finally finds some sweet relief in the form of the the hired entertainment, most people gathering at the piano as they listen to some renowned pianist play, allowing Harry to sneak off to one of the empty balconies unnoticed with a snatched Champaign flute. Des has been lost to the crowd for long enough that Harry is sure he won't notice his departure, so he leaves with a deep sigh of relief, the tension seeping from his shoulders like honey from a jar. The stars shine in the crisp cool air, magical in a way that only can be during the winter, fairy lights twinkling far below in time with the fizz-fizz-pop of the bubbles on his tongue. Orion and his belt hang directly in Harrys eyeline, the moon directly above and he takes the moment to run through the evening in his mind.  
He did a good job he recons, did well by his fathers standards, hopefully enough that he satisfied whatever it be that his father needed satisfying. He's exhausted, physically yes, but also in the sense that his mind, his soul is tired. He feels hollow and unfulfilled because as much as he wooed the people here tonight, he also took yet another step towards the life that he desperately doesn't want. He doesn't want to become an engineer, much less to become a part of this damned company with its damned people and his life of hiding behind fake smiles, the mere thought of being stuck here forevermore makes his chest constrict with claustrophobia. It sounds like hell.   
What Harry really wants is freedom. He wants to be free like the stars in the night sky, wants to shine and to be the resting place for something wonderful and untouchable, something incredibly good. He thinks of the boy from the coffee shop, the one with the scruffy hair and the glowing in his eyes. That boy shines, Harry thinks, shines like he has endless burning energy and passion to fuel his every move, he has the sun in his smile, the stars in his eyes.   
What Harry would give to taste them.


	3. A Small Smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry finally has a conversation with a certain blue-eyed barista ;-)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
Thank you for reading, it means so much to me! This chapter made me smile just a little bit, and I hope you enjoy it too.  
Not going to lie, this little fic has been my escape this past week (summer feels like 6 bloody year ago, I swear) and I had a lot of fun writing it.  
Love to everyone, and if you happen to find any motivation to do schoolwork anywhere, its probably mine. I lost mine on Monday morning and I kind of need it back sooner rather than later thank youuuu!

This might just be the best book that Harry has ever read. It's amazing, world-changing, incredible, Harry is absolutely smitten, and yes, he's probably not in the intended audience but honestly anyone who wants to judge him can f right off. He's around 3/4 of the way through, and the storyline is suspiciously quiet, he just knows that ish is about to go down, and he's absolutely dead-set on finishing this book before he puts it down, he's pretty positive that if he doesn't find out how it ends before soon, his head will literally explode. There are two problems with this unfortunately, one being that the bookshop is closing in ten minutes, and two, he really, really needs some tea. In large amounts. Right the heck now. This book is stressful, damn, and he can't remember the last deep breath that he took.  
Making sure to stuff a receipt into the book as a place-keeper, he makes his way down the winding staircase and into the front of the shop, nodding his head and calling his thanks to the old man at the desk as he closes the heavy door behind him. The second-hand book shop is probably his second favorite place in town, somewhere he goes almost as often as he goes to Miracles. He spends all of his money on food and books, and he's perfectly content on doing so until the day he can no longer afford to. Its probably a problem (addiction) but he'll blissfully ignore that thankyou very much! The high-street is busy with traffic, headlights blinding him as he walks down the path, but he doesn't meet anyone on foot, no-one else brave enough to venture out into the night at this time of year. Burying his face into his knitted scarf, Harry walks swiftly to his destination, marching forwards with his chin tucked into his chest in a battle for warmth against the frigid air. His cheeks and his fingertips grow numb with the bitter cold, but soon he steps into the welcoming warmth of Miracles, and with the blast of warm, coffee scented air, he feels himself shiver back to life again. The apple of his cheek burns some more as his green eyes meet and ocean blue, and he is suddenly thankful that the warm blush can be blamed on the cold temperature.

The first time Harry set sight on the ocean, and really, truly, appreciated it, he was 12. It was during a family holiday, one of many trips they had taken to the Welsh coast and Harry had just that morning received the news that his grandmother had passed away. He didn't really know her, as such, since she was his mothers' mother, and he hasn't seen his mother since he was a child, but the loss was still the first time he'd experienced death, and its not unusual to say that it hit him hard. She was his first loss, if you count by death at least, and he felt so detached from the world. It was the first time that he ever really acknowledged the hole in his life where the other half of his family should be. He wasn't told anything about the divorce of his mother and father, no-one ever dared to mention his mothers name, and any small scraps that he did happen know were found through his own digging (his father was guilty and selfish. Even if Harry found the confidence to ask, he would either have been lied to, or snapped at). So Harry was at the beach front with his childhood bestfriend, and he'd just been told that the grandmother he never really knew had died and in that moment, Harry's heart just broke. He though about his mother, and what little he could remember of her. Though of how much his mother had already been though, and how much she must be hurting. He wondered, wished with all his heart that he could be there for her, that he could have known his grandmother and sat in her lap while she fed him flapjacks on a lazy Sunday afternoon. He became angry, viciously angry at his father for depriving him of his family, of all things. Yes, he was left in the dark about most things, but he knew, could remember enough about his mother that he knew she was the best person he ever met. With a fit of pained rage, he began throwing rock after rock into the sea, watching them crash and sink, splashing into the waves as far as he could throw them. Eventually he calmed down enough, and began stacking them in delicate piles, just as he'd seen an artist do the day before. He became sad then, mostly, grieving for the sake of a person that he never knew, but also for the life that was taken from him. The life that included his mother and her friends and half of his bloody family. His father and his friend were out of sight by this point, probably talking about what they wanted for dinner that night, or something equally irrelevant to Harry's pain, and Harry just broke down. Began sobbing tears as salty as the sea. It was only then that he really appreciated it, the ocean in its vastness and entirety. He pictured each one of his tears flowing straight into the waves, and understood what those lyrics really meant. Tears flow like the ocean. Ocean eyes. From that day forward Harry never saw the ocean quite the same way again. He quantified every tear he shed by comparing it to the ocean, nothing but raindrops on the surface of a body so large, it must hold all the pain in the world. Maybe he was going through just a little bit of that angsty teenager stage, but the metaphor was inspiring to him, made him feel weirdly connected to everyone, as if all sadness resigned in the same colossal body of water, so deep that not one person had touched the very bottom. Harry thought of the rain, and the rivers, and the life that flourished in the submerged depths. He though of the creepy fish he'd seen on Planet Earth, and of the beautiful fluorescent jellyfish in the tropics. He thought it was beautiful and scary, and he loved it. Always will do, and never once has he looked at the sea and not thought of everyone he misses, of their pain connecting and flowing all in one place. He's never looked at the ocean and not seen his family, his mother, his grandmother. Maybe he's just a weirdo and a loner, but it makes him feel connected to them somehow, so much so that he painted his bedroom walls a green-blue, just to run his finger over the colour when he feels particularly lonely.

In this second, as Harry walks into the shop, sheltering from the cold, and instantly meet blue, he sees so much more. Those eyes. Those damn eyes, and their sea-blue colour have Harry reeling. Harry thought this boy was a star, the sun, but now he thinks he's an ocean, the sea, the tide that's drawing him into the waves. He needs to snap the hell out of it. 

Harry realises that he's been staring for God knows how long when the boy smiles a crinkled smile and tilts his head in question. He probably thinks Harry is a right weirdo, but what the hell he literally is the weirdest person he's ever met, so honesty he was expecting no less.  
"Tea?" the boy asks, and after an silence that felt just on the awkward side of too long, Harry finally finds it in himself to reply.  
"Please" Harry murmurs, and then fumbles in his pockets for some lose change he's bound to have.  
"I'll bring it to you, yeh?" The boy asks, and Harry places the correct change on the counter before he murmurs his thanks and scurries off, face hot as a damn oven.  
His chair is blissfully empty as he plonks himself down into it, sighing into his hands as he recalls the embarrassment that was the last few minutes. He surely can't carry on like this, he thinks, surely he can't spend the rest of his life being this awkward around pretty boys or he's doomed to spend the rest of his pathetic life as a mad cat lady. Shaking his head, he takes a deep breath and resigns to planting his face back into his book- We Were Liars. He reasons that If he's reading when the blue-eyed man comes over to bring tea, then surely Harry can't embarrass himself any further.

From there on out, Harry resigns temporarily from the world, and his memories (and his crush), and he completely an utterly looses himself in the last few chapters of his book. He submerges, and he doesn't come up for air for a solid hour, his only interruption coming when he goes to pour himself another cup of tea from the pot, and nil but a measly dribble comes out. Harry doesn't really remember drinking enough to drain an entire teapot, never mind such a big one at that! That's also something, he supposes, the fact that the boy has somehow slipped Harry one of the biggest teapots he's ever seen when he recalls definitely only paying for one cup and he can't really let this continue, he thinks, but resigns to finishing his book before he'll seek out the boy and figure out what he's up to.

The book ends well, thank God, or as well as he expected it to (although after the plot twist that were the previous chapters, he doesn't quite know which way is up) and he finds that he has to take a second once he's finished it to breathe in deeply, just stare blankly at the wall in a trance something akin to shellshock. It isn't until several minutes later, after he's finally snapped himself out of whatever it was that he was experiencing and his senses have finally start trickling back into the forefront of his mind that he even remembers where he is. He feels like his soul has just found him again after it temporarily left for another planet, and honestly, he's not totally mad at it. It feels kind of... exhilarating he supposes... in a way that he hasn't found yet in real life.  
The Café is dark and quiet, he notices, suspiciously quiet now that he comes to think of it, and for a second he panics that he's somehow been left alone, perhaps the boy behind the counter had forgotten that Harry hiding in his spot, and had locked up and left without even realizing. Thankfully one quick time-check on his phone quells the worry- it's only 17:45, and he has 15 minutes before the shop is due to close, so he reasons that he must be the last customer left, hence why the shop is so quiet. No-one in their right mind would find themselves down the alleyway past sunset, no matter how quaint the tearoom is, and while Harry has never claimed to be sane, he's sure the rest of the population is probably starting dinner, families all cooped up in warm kitchens as they potter about, bickering over hearty home-cooked meals with the curtains drawn. It's a happy thought, but one that feels a little sour all the same, making Harry wish he could have that for himself and he knows he must put a stop to it before he gets himself down again.

Picking up his mug and his pot of tea, he emerges from his little crook with a snap of his back, and a stretch of his arms over his head, buttoning his coat as he tucks his beloved book into the palm of his hand. He's inexplicably tensed again, but with a gentle reminder he can ease his muscles into something soft, not wanting to be so damn tight and uncomfortable. It makes him feel panicked when he gets like that. The lights in the shop are dimmed, an orange-ish tint to the room that casts long shadows across the floorboards. It makes the place feel sleepy, with just a hint of mystery, it's exciting for some strange reason to be alone in a public place, feels like it's infinitely more late than it actually is, like time might have stopped all together, like 4am service-station stops on a long car journey. Harry jumps about a mile high when he hears someone clear their throat to his left, and the boy responds with a chuckle, moving around a table to take the teapot and the mug from Harrys left hand, almost dropping them in the process. The boy huffs a little at his small hands, and Harry thinks he kind of looks like an annoyed kitten.  
"You have like... really big hands mate" The boy says, voice quiet like he respects the silence of the room. Harry can't stand it when people are loud in a quiet moment, so the hushed tones are greatly appreciated. Harry giggles and it's definitely not embarrassing.  
  
"Apparently so I've been told?" He replies, light and teasing "Also, I wanted to say thankyou for, you know, the copious amounts of tea that I definitely don't remember paying for..."  
  
"Absolute nonsense, don't you dare worry that curly head of yours alright mate?" The boy replies with a reassuring smile.  
  
"I feel bad though... Margaret is really lovely, and I don't like the thought of like... taking her stuff... It's only some hot water I suppose, but still like... principle and that..." Harry drawls, filling the silence with some miscellaneous hand gestures that don't really explain anything now that he thinks about it. They just look a little stupid, and he tucks them to his side in a flash of embarrassment.  
  
"Excuse my French, but that's the biggest load of bullshit I've heard today! I know for a fact that you've charmed the granny panties off her saggy bottom," he grimaces at that, but credit to him as he perseveres, turning back to face Harry after he places the teapot on the side, smiling kindly and God, he's pretty "she always asks about 'that quiet curly lad' and whether or not she should bake that lemon cake because its your favorite and it always makes you smile'. I think she has a little bit of a crush" The boy whispers conspiratorially, giggling out loud when Harry scrunches his face in disgust.  
  
"She's like, 70 and... a woman" Harry exclaims, not realizing what he'd admitted to until it's too late. The boy takes it in his sunny stride though, doesn't even bat an eyelid, so Harry follows his lead and lets it slide.  
  
"Not really your type then?" He replies, teasing with a grin.  
  
"Not even slightly"  
  
"Besides the point though, you seemed like you needed it, and I couldn't deny anyone tea when they need it. God knows how grumpy I get when I haven't had my fill." The boy shakes his head in a self-deprecating manner, but his eyes are sparkling with a mischief that doesn't tell the same story.  
  
"Yeh, I really needed it" Harry admits quietly, eyes casting down as his confidence wavers with the admission.  
  
"Everything alright?" The boy asks with care. It makes Harry heave a silent sigh, wondering when the last time someone actually asked that and meant it. It was probably Mr. Deakin, and honestly that just makes Harry more depressed.  
  
"I'm okay thanks" Harry answers, and he kind of half means it. Nothing is alright, absolutely nothing about his current situation is 'alright'. But he's... fine. He'll cope. He doesn't really mean it but never mind. The poor boy probably just wants Harry out of the shop so he can lock up and go home, probably to a loving family and all. "I should get out of your hair" Harry tells the ground, fiddling repeatedly with the spine of his book.  
  
"You're really no trouble mate, but I do need to lock up soon, and you should get home before it gets too late, wouldn't want everyone's favorite customer on the dark and perilous streets of Whithill" Harry blushes at the implication, but smiles all the same, backing towards the door with just a few strides. He pauses suddenly by the door, realizing an error in his ways.  
  
"Oh! I never got your name!"  
  
"Louis" The boy- Louis- replies.  
  
"M' Harry"  


That night, Harry walks home in the dark with his eyes cast down just as always, but this time, he feels a little happiness bubble in his chest, a small smile lightening the corners of his mouth.


	4. Maybe he could?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For our poor boy, things start getting real, and sometimes you have to get literally smacked in the face with the truth before you realize it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to lie, I've probably chosen the worst possible time to be writing this fic. It's like, I finally had the confidence to write it, and now I have just everything happening! The metaphorical sh*t has hit the ceiling and let me tell you, it is going EVERYWHERE, all at once, and it's showing no signs of stopping...…! CaN i GeT a BrEaK pLeAsE!!!!  
Annywayyyy… now I have THAT out of my system, I actually had a lot of fun writing this one, and maybe I did a little number on H but its all for the better I promise.

The sun must be in the sky somewhere, this is objective information, and Harry knows it, but damn. He hasn't seen it in what must be years (it's been five days and... honestly? It may as well have been years). It's grey, and cold, and he's bloody well had it up to his ears with the British wintertime and it's lingering, disgusting half-rain half-fog that literally never leaves. It's March for heavens sakes! It should be warmer than a flipping fridge! Why is he wearing GLOVES? Someone explain! He giggles aloud at this thought, imagining it said as it is in the vine, in some accent that Harry couldn't ever begin to identify. Thankfully, with it being such a miserable Saturday morning, there's no one around to see him giggling into his leather gloves like a schoolgirl with a secret, and when he stumbles over a drop-curb well, no one has to know.  
He's on an errand run, see, to the local One Stop for a pint of milk and hopefully a treat for himself with the change that he has left over. He's really craving some chocolate. Sliding doors on the front of the shop open automatically for him as he enters, but there's no warm blast of air to greet him, no. Even in this weather, the shop still manages somehow to be colder by a good few degrees, and Harry is almost impressed for a second, until he shivers and remembers yeh, this kind of sucks. A lot. Thank God he'll only be in and out, and he doesn't need to stay any longer than a few minutes. 

"Hi Harry! How're you?" he hears, just as he's reaching for a carton of milk. Fuck his quick in and out plan then.  
"I'm fine thank you, and yourself?" he replies, because he's polite, even when talking to bitchy old ladies who stick their long, ugly, judgmental noses way too far into other peoples business.  
"So I heard about a certain someone attending another important meeting... How'd it go? Did you enjoy?" Margaret pesters, and the smile she sends his way is almost... predatory. It looks like a smile a snake would use while busy charming its prey. Harry wonders briefly just how much trouble he's gotten himself into this time, and more to the point- just what he's done to upset the woman. God knows he'd rather forget the last time that happened. They go way back, see, she's... a family friend so he supposes (she's friends with his father and his stepmother, and while he used to look up to her as a child... she certainly has a way of showing her true colors from time to time).  
"It went well, thankyou." He replies, gritting his teeth through a painful smile. She doesn't look impressed in the slightest though, rather it looks like Harry's about to receive an absolute bollocking and he's really not in the headspace for it at the moment (he never is). Whatever it is that she's up to, Harry is sure he's about to get told.  
"I also heard, dear, that you kicked up quite the fuss! Fancy a boy of your age doing such a thing to his poor father!" And there it is. The punchline to the eagerly awaited all new installment of the famous 'Everyone Hates Harry' shit-show. The next chapter, if you will. One boy, one father, the fight of a lifetime. Follow as they duel! Battling against will and pride and every stupid little pawn in public icon 'Des Styles' army of capitalist bigots-  
"You really aught not to cause him so much trouble, son, he's only looking out for your health..." She chastises, breaking through Harrys... less than savory thoughts in a tone colder and harder than a block of ice. She's waiting for a reply, Harry knows, and she becomes more and more obviously enraged with every second of dumb silence that he provides. He's lost though, can't grapple with his tongue long enough to actually find the words that he needs. He feels a sick, lurching kind of panic curling in his midriff, a ball of shame grasping his windpipe with an iron fist. She growls, pretty much, frown taking over her nasty face and for a horrible second, Harry thinks he's about to be slapped.  
"You're a disappointment, boy, to your father, to your name. How can you act so selfishly? Is it a big head? Do you think you're it all, think you're a spoiled brat for the rest of your life, living off your fathers pretty pennies? Just like the rest of them you are, and don't forget it. Book up your ideas, child, before it's too late and you find yourself homeless without a penny to your name. Then you'll be sorry, won't you?" She spits, glaring at Harry like he's a filthy piece of rubbish on the sole of her shoe. Harry can't decide whether he'd rather have been slapped. He might throw up. Or cry, he can't decide.  
"You won't behave that way again, do you understand?" She snarls, and she's talking loudly too, voice raised to put on a good show. "I won't have you treat your father that way. Good day, Harry." She punctuates, with a firm nod of her head, and a shake of her old, bony fist in his direction as she walks over to the tills. Harry just stands there in a daze, fingers shaking so much that he can't quite grasp the handle of the milk properly. He glances up, and locks eyes with his Geography teacher, drops the milk, and bolts out of the shop like its hell. His lungs burn and his jaw cinches shut with rage, tears burning his eyes as they spill in heavy balls down the apple of his cheeks. He's in shock mostly, reeling and spinning with so many emotions that they all become one hot, disgusting ball of panic in the center of his chest. He walks blindly, oblivious to everything but the dark that he's feeling. He couldn't tell you where his feet are carrying him, he only knows that sometime later, he finds himself in the park, the icy cold metal of the bench burning through the layers of his thick winter tracky bottoms. The sensation shocks him a little, wakes him from the emotional coma that he was in, and suddenly he's feeling everything at once again, anger, fear, embarrassment, panic, a hatred so strong for it all, every last detail of his life. Every last inch of himself. He hates it all. Wants it to stop. Wants it gone. He hates his father, and the control that he has over Harry. He hates his step-mother for her stupid games, hates her for being his fathers right-hand man. What he hates the most is the gossip chain that they've created, honed in on the destruction of all things that Harry does, all the things that he is. Mostly, he just hates that at 18, he's being publicly told off for something that he didn't do. Again. He hates that his father is responsible. Hates himself for putting up with this shit again and again, performing like a puppet on a string for an audience of his fathers choosing. He's nothing more than a pawn in his fathers game. He's used over and over again, humiliated and manipulated, kicked and beaten into the ground for some sick and twisted dramatization of life. Life itself has never been kind to Harry. He's never seen the rainbow on his rainy days, never the silver lining that people speak so fondly of. Can't remember the last he felt safe or loved. Can't remember feeling happy, whether it be with his life, or with himself, he can't remember ever feeling it. Even as a child, his happy days were always plagued by arguments, fights with his father, screaming and crying for it to stop. Here and now, on the cold park bench, Harry thinks of killing himself, just ending it all, this sorry existence of life that he's living, nothing ever done for himself, he has no dreams and no future. He feels like everything he does, his entire existence, has been for someone else, and he's utterly lost, has no concept of himself aside from the overwhelming feeling of being trapped. Stuck inside a skin which is so often controlled by someone else. As he settles his thoughts, he realizes that he's probably over-reacting a little. He realizes that his father doesn't have complete control over him, and the realization in itself Harry guesses if proof enough. He is capable of being his own person. He just needs to calm the fuck down, and regain his self-control. He's strong enough that he won't let this end him. He will find himself in this mess, and he will. 

It's dusk by the time he becomes coherent again, and everything looks dreary and blurry. It doesn't help that he has dried tears in the corners of his eyes, the itchiness makes it harder to see. His phone has been vibrating near-constant over the last half an hour, but he doesn't quite have the nerve to find out how much trouble he's in. He bets its a lot, considering he's so late, and for a minute he debates walking back to the shop so that he doesn't return empty-handed. Things go from bad to worse though, when he reaches into his pocket and finds that the ten pond note is missing, probably lying somewhere on the shop floor, abandoned in his haste to leave. He's going to be absolutely murdered.  
Walking into the house, he hangs his head as low as it will go, slipping his coat off from his shoulders and his boots from his feet. He's trying his hardest to be quiet as he slips into the utility room- a small room just off the garage where they keep the miscellaneous stuff, coat rack, art supplies, kitty litter, all the stuff that needs to be out of sight, but tenses ten-fold when Harley, his sweet little cat, meows rather loudly for some attention. Instantly busted but he could never be angry at Harley for wanting cuddles. He sates her with a soft stroke on the top of her head before he knows his time is up.  
"Got the milk?" His stepmother calls from the kitchen, and shit. Does he lie? What does he even say in this situation?  
"They were all out..." He replies, and he doesn't even stutter. Then his father walks in through the front door. Harrys life just got a whole lot worse.  
Dinner is painfully and awfully tense. His father hasn't said anything about the milk, or the money, but in every way that just makes it worse. You see, his father is very... unpredictable when it comes to these things. Either he'll explode on-sight, cursing and shouting and blowing everything out of proportion (this only happens when he's had a particularly bad day already), or he'll wait. He'll let you sit in whatever you've done, skirting around it, dropping hints and stink-eyes so slight that he has you double-guessing, re-evaluating your every move because you don't know what he knows. You don't know if he's pissed at you, don't know if it's something you've done, or something you're doing, or something that he thinks you're doing but you're actually not. One time, when Harry was 12, he waited 6 weeks to blow up after he'd done something wrong. 6 weeks of embarrassing Harry in public, guilt-tripping him at any chance that he got, hell, even whilst he was giving a few of Harry's school mates a lift home, he was scolding him for this that and the other. Harry's friends never looked him in the eye again after the excruciating half-hour of pure guilt-trip. His father built it up, and built it up until Harry was a nervous wreck. He drove Harry to cutting for the first time, just because he couldn't take the tension any longer, couldn't stand being beaten into the ground so passive-aggressively.  
"So, I have the conformation email that you have a place on the JagLand apprentices." Des says, and Harry thinks there was supposed to be an exclamation mark at the end of his sentence, maybe even a little excitement, but the way Des says it, he makes it sound like a death-sentence. Side-note, Harry knows for a fact that they hadn't emailed Des, they'd emailed that particular email to Harrys personal account. Harry didn't need any more conformation that he was being watched, but the casual dropping-it-into-conversation kind of makes him want to throw up. This is all part of the game. He nods through it, takes a bite from his potato to salvage some calm.  
"That's good. It's such a wonderful experience. You're going to make me so proud when you do well." Des mumbles through a mouthful, and the message couldn't have been clearer if he'd spelled it out. Harry stills for a second, and yes, he thinks.

This is Harrys tipping point. This is where he has finally had enough.

He needs a plan.


	5. Just A Little Bit Of Sunshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has a plan... but mostly he just has a headache and a few god friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know that I completely suck, and I haven't uploaded in like, forever, but oh my gosh I've been so busy. Ridiculously busy. The English education system will kill me one of these days. I hate year 13.  
Love you all :)  
Oh, and this chapter was written on literally the most chaotic time schedule and it kind of sucks and I'm sorrryyyyy  
:(

The next morning is a little different. Not because his father has changed, or because his life is no longer a mess, no, from that stance, things are still very much the same, but in the essence, and on an inside level, things are different. And that, Harry thinks, is already one massive step forwards. To the sound of his alarm, he rolls out of bed, brushes his teeth, pays no mind to the exhaustion-induced dizziness that he's experiencing, and he walks out the front door at the exact moment that he usually would. All is going well so far, he thinks. His step-mother didn't even acknowledge him as he left, his fathers car isn't in the driveway, and lastly (most importantly) he hasn't been busted for what he's about to do.  
He isn't going to school.  
Revolutionary, he knows, to skip an entire day of school at the age of 18, but to his stress-filled and sleepless mind, the concept is only one peg down from genius. The whole masterplan was thought up sometime this morning- around the 4am mark- and it consists of this: Get up, get dressed, leave normal time, walk to Miracles, get tea, make a plan. Granted, its probably not the most detailed and elaborate plan of action, but its a start and as he figures it, no-one ever got anywhere without making a start.

Walking down the road in the opposite direction feels a little weird, especially as he passes the bloke in the suit that he always seems to walk behind, and he's actually a lot older than Harry had imagined him. It's funny that. Or at least, it is after he only scraped a couple hours of restless sleep. Harry doesn't tend to function very well on less than 9 hours at the minimum, so to say he's brain-dead with 2 would be a understatement. He feels hungover. He needs tea. 

Miracles is surprisingly quiet on a Friday morning, thank God. Harry isn't sure he'd be able to cope with anything more than the whirr of the coffee machine at this point. Any more sound and he'd probably have to take his tea and leave, and while a stroll through the park would be soothing, its still freezing. English weather. We've been over this. Either way, the calm and quiet atmosphere is very welcoming to a stressed-out Harry, and gets lost in planning his escape before he's even sat down with his pot of tea. (He might also think a little bit about Louis behind the counter and the crinkles by his eyes, but that's besides the point. Irrelevant).  
When he finally does pull himself together, he realizes that he hasn't got his journal on him, nor even a scrap of paper to note down his plan on. At first, he's annoyed with himself for being so thoughtless, but then when he really thinks about it, he finds that he's kind of glad. There's something about writing this down that makes him panic. Maybe it's because it makes them more real, and holy crap the idea that he's actually going to do this is terrifying but on the other hand, he thinks it might be more to do with the fact that writing it down makes it available for others to read. He can't have others knowing. Can't display his pain so physically, and shit when he thinks about his father potentially finding the plans written out, Harry would rather die. He'd kill himself before his father could read the second word. So he just leaves it. Doesn't ask for a pen and paper or anything, he simply keeps his thoughts to himself. 

Its currently 10am, and he's been sat at his table for 2 hours doing nothing but thinking (and yawning and drinking tea, speaking of which, he's definitely run out of tea and he needs to fix that). Whist he thinks he has a pretty good plan, he's also completely aware that he's at about 10% function right now, and he honestly can't even string a proper coherent thought together. Which is why he needs tea. And maybe a pot of sugar just to top it all off. So with this in mind, he ventures out of his nook with a stretch of his back and a nice thwack of his kneecap on the edge of the table. It stings like a bitch, but he grits his teeth and scoops his teapot under his arm and makes his way into the main tearoom, trying his best not to imagine what would happen if he rounded the corner and found his step-mother. It's a little more busy than it was earlier, if you count two old men sitting alone at their tables, but thankfully that's everyone, and Harry takes a deep breath to calm his anxiety. He can do this.  
"H! What're you doing here lad?" Someone shouts just as he calms down a little. So much for that then. Harry's head snaps up, but its only Niall, the blonde barista and since when did Niall know him well enough to be on a nickname basis?  
"Nothing." Harry answers, the word coming out far too quickly to convey any calm, but since when has Harry ever been good in social situations? Niall seems not to care.  
"How've you been then? No offence, mate but you look shit." Harry is very flustered. He doesn't know quite how to respond to that one. Thankfully, he doesn't have to.  
"Nialler, leave the poor boy alone. He doesn't want to hear all of your questions!" Louis calls as he pops up from behind the counter, arms full with the paper cups they use for take-away orders. He has a dusting of flour by his left eye, and the urge for Harry to brush it off is monumental. He has to fiddle with his lip just to stop himself from reaching out.  
"Jeez, I was just being friendly" Niall mutters, looking put out, and Harry kind of feels bad.  
"Nah, it's ok. Do I really look that bad though?" He replies, knowing the answer is probably not one he wants to hear. Maybe he should have put some concealer on before he left. Damn it. Its too late now. "Actually, don't answer that. I know I do. I'm here for tea please." Niall doesn't even bat an eyelash.  
"I'll fill the pot for you, yeh? And then we can have a good ol' chat with Uncle Nialler, how's that sound?" And actually, it doesn't sound so good, but Harry doesn't have the heart to tell him no. As pathetic as it sounds, Niall is the closest thing to a friend he has, and he doesn't want to accidentally offend him or anything, Harry just hopes his story won't send the blonde running for the hills.  
"Okay" Harry responds, a little timid but Niall seems to just take it for what it is and he doesn't even glance up from where he's busying himself with the kettle. He can feel Louis looking at him, but thankfully Niall turns back around before anything is said.  
"Onwards and upwards then lad." Niall calls as he leads the way, and well... onwards and upwards it is then. 

As it turns out, Niall actually helps a lot and... Harry might have misjudged him. He feels kind of bad. If there's one thing that makes him feel the worst, it's being misunderstood, and he feels very strongly that no one should ever be judged by it's cover. It seems that he's failed himself then. He'll have to think of some way to make up for his behavior.  
Despite the brash Irish accent and the loud personality, he was actually really respectful, and made some valid points that Harry hadn't quite considered before. (See: Harry isn't completely alone. Apparently he's been officially enrolled into Niall's List of Absolutely Cracking People) So, there's that, and there's the offence in his face when Harry had described the situation he's in. And the way he'd made Harry feel so comfortable and safe while he basically poured all his secrets out into the open. All in all, it's both reviving and absolutely exhausting and by the end of their not so little chat Harry feels like he's been dragged through a bush backwards and sent through a washing machine. He's not so sure which way is up anymore.  
"Coming then?" The blonde asks from where he's hovering over the table. He's gotten up so abruptly that Harry isn't really sure why he's standing. Or where he's going. But either way, he sees the expectant look on Niall's face, and he follows the lad back through the teashop to the front counter where a bright-eyed Fran is now positioned.  
"Oh! Come here dear! Come give an old lady a cuddle" She calls as soon as she sees him, scurrying around the counter as quickly as her old legs can carry her, arms thrown as wide as she can get them. She wraps Harry up like a burrito, smelling like lavender and Eccles cake. Same as always and Harry wouldn't change it for the world.  
"You never stop growing do you dear!" She remarks after she stands on her toes to smack a wet kiss to Harry's cheek, making him blush and giggle.  
"Its lovely to see you" Harry replies, dimples and all, and really, it feels like forever since he'd last seen her. "You're looking well" He comments, smiling even wider as she lights up with the complement. She's in her 80's and if Harry can look anywhere as youthful as she does then he'll count it a win. She really is beautiful, in that old-timey way that elderly people do sometimes. There is plenty of youth left in her yet.  
"Ah, in this old thing?" Fran laughs, brushing her hands down her front to remove of some invisible dirt from her flower-patterned apron. It's blue, complementing the cream dress she's wearing and the cream hairpin in her fringe.  
"Of course! Oh, and by the way, the bunting on the front of the shop is a really nice addition. Its nice to see a little color in the alleyway." He remarks, and it is just that- makes it less intimidating to walk through it in the dark and that's for sure.  
"Oh you're too kind love" She replies, and he gets a pinch on the cheek for his troubles "Now. You're much to thin to be healthy, look at you! All skin and bones and it's no good! Look at him, boys, he's even worse than you two." She says with a shake of her curls. Harry almost feels bad for it, too, if it weren't for the stubborn baby fat he can't loose around his face, he'd probably agree. He is a little twig-like in the leg department, especially since that last growth spurt he had back in Year 10 and he was never a chubby kid to start with. Niall seems to agree, if his sniggering is anything to go by, and Harry gives him a little shove in compensation. He was hoping it would go unnoticed but just as he's getting a good shot in, he catches Louis eye. He hadn't even seen Louis until this point which is just... catastrophic... especially considering that Louis is no longer in his work polo, and has changed into a plain white tee and looks absolutely lifechanging. Seriously, if work-Louis was hansom, he has nothing on casual-Louis. Maybe Harry lingers a little too long on the whole outfit thing (and God is it fit) because when he finally meets blue eyes again, they're crinkled a little differently. There's a little bit of heat behind them. But surely there can't be? Harry might be malfunctioning.

It turns out that it was actually the end on Niall and Louis' shifts, and they were headed to Niall's flat for a lads day. Apparently it was a thing that they did every Friday with their friends Liam and Zayn. Harry is trying to pretend that he's ok with the development but he can't remember the last time he was invited to a hangout of any sort, so he's a little unfamiliar with the whole concept and he's suddenly anxious. It must show on his face too, because Louis nudges his shoulder as they're walking towards the complex of flats that Niall lives in. He sends a smile over his shoulder, eyes kind and compassionate and so beautiful that they're all Harry can concentrate on. Its ridiculous, but he finds himself wanting to stop the moment right then and there. Maybe live in it for a while, curl up all content in the warmth that Louis smile provides. Its completely and disgustingly sappy, even for Harry, but when it comes to this boy, he just can't seem to help himself. So he smiles. And he hopes that maybe, in some alternate universe somewhere Louis might just be thinking the same thing too. Oh wouldn't that be nice. 

Apparently Harry was being anxious for nothing. He'd even go as far to say that he feels comfortable, and that's certainly never happened so quickly before! The four boys turn out to be quite the group- Liam being the teddy bear, Zayn being the brooding quiet one, Niall being... aggressively Irish (and apparently very hungry?) and Louis... well, Harry isn't sure how to describe him. He's... difficult? But maybe that isn't the way to say it? He's childish, and teasing, and he's almost always attention seeking in whatever way he can. He's loud, too, which is, quite honestly... hard for Harry to take in an... appropriate way.  
"Louis! Can you PLEASE grow up for half a second!" Liam snaps and apparently he's had quite enough of Louis sniggering at the rather... unfortunate shape of Liam's new cactus. Harry might have been sniggering too because that cactus is a dick. A disturbingly detailed dick and there are so many puns circling his head at the moment that he's perpetually 2 seconds away from bursting into hysterics. He might already be crying. He's just a hell of a lot better at hiding it than Louis.  
"Ah! Harry's laughing too! That's no fair!" Louis whines and there goes his shot at impressing Liam then. Harry honest to God tries to steel himself but then he remembers... its a cactus dick and he's immediately dying again.  
"What's so funny?" Niall asks after a solid 30 seconds of Harry wheeze laughing with his hands covering his face.  
"It's a..." He tries to get his words out, he honestly does, but this is just too funny. "s' a prick" He manages, the words whispered through a laugh and God that has to be the pun of the century. The response he gets is a contrast of groans (from Liam) and varying levels of laughter and he's probably embarrassing himself with his primary school humor but bite him. Its fucking funny.  
"Have you quite finished yet?" Liam grumbles and then sighs in exasperation when he gets no response aside from laughter. It's a little hopeless for him though, about as useless as a substitute teacher trying to control a Sex Ed class.  
"That was fantastic" Niall comments, reaching over to high five Harry from where he's sat.  
"Trust me, I have loads more from where that came from." Is Harry's response and if he blushes when Louis pokes his dimple and tells him that he can't wait to hear more, then he'll blame it on the laughter. 

It's suddenly 2:45pm and Harry really has to leave. The problem is that he's somehow ended up pressed to Louis side with Louis hand tracing patterns on his knee and he really, really doesn't want to move. Harry isn't really sure how or why it happened, but when Louis had gotten up for a toilet break and sat down again much closer than before, his heart made a funny fluttering that he's like to feel again sometime soon. He really has to get home though, or he has no hope of pretending he went to Sixth Form today.  
"Thanks so much for having me, but I really have to make a move." He announces once he's left it as long as his building nerves can last him.  
"Absolutely mate, you're welcome anytime" Liam replies, sending a kind smile Harry's way.  
"Yeh, I think that goes for all of us, it was lovely to have finally met you!" Zayn adds, and Harry hadn't heard him say that many words in one go all afternoon so he must have done something right. Either that or Zayn's just really eager for him to leave.  
"Thanks so much." He replies, trying not to tear up in the process. Exhaustion always has made him an emotional wreck and he's feeling a little overwhelmed for some reason. The wobbly feeling is inevitable really after everything that's happened over... Harry's entire existence... and the concept of having good group of friends is one that Harry has only dreamed about. He just hopes that somehow, through everything that's going to happen in these coming months, he can keep them. And if he ends up the way he thinks he will, with a place at Bangor University, Wales, then he hopes with all of his heart that he can somehow take them with him. If not physically then through phone calls and facetime because if he's going to loose his family, then he's going to do everything in his power to not loose his friends too.


	6. The Storm After The Calm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go a little sour for Harry, and he spends the night in the park.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnnnnd I'm back. Boom. Only one day late and everything!  
This one's a little heavy on the action, and the violence I'm afraid so this is just a little disclaimer, remember to read the tags if you want more detail : )  
My poor Harry really got it in this one : (

Okay, so maybe taking a day off school wasn't the best idea. Of course the first thing Harry saw when he walked in the front door was his step-mother. And boy, was the atmosphere tense. Admittedly, it's definitely been worse, Harry doesn't think the atmosphere will ever be as tense as it was for those few months during the court process, but it also hasn't been as bad as this for years. On the outside, everything appears to be fine, his sisters are raucous as usual and the cat is scratching at the door like its never seen fresh air, but you can feel it. Boy can you feel it. The air is so thick that its quite hard to breathe (or is that just the acute anxiety that's been building in Harry's chest for the last century?)  
His first move, of course, is to let the poor cat out the door. Harley is a rescue animal, see, and she hates the tension almost as much as Harry does. She really doesn't deserve to be subjected to it, and Harry hopes that she can make herself scarce for however long this lasts.  
"Have a nice day at school?" His step-mother asks as he closes the door, and if he was a cat, his hackles would be up before she even finished the sentence. It's the same question she always asks, but there's something different in the tone that she's using. Something that Harry really doesn't like.  
"Yeh, it was good thanks" He replies hoping its up to standard in some way.  
"Good." She replies, and Harry walks away before she open her mouth again. 

\- - - - - - -

Harry is in trouble. Bigger trouble than he's ever been in before. 

His father worked late. 

He didn't turn up to dinner, didn't turn up until the girls bedtime even. And now it's 8:30pm and the house is quiet and his father just came up to his room to ask for a word in the kitchen. Harry's step-mother has gone out for a night with friends. He's completely alone. 

Harry doesn't want to picture why his father wants him in the kitchen. HIs brain isn't being helpful either. Kitchens are just easier to clean.

His father is leaning against the countertop when he walks in. Harry watches as his father circles him to close the door.  
"The day you were born, I promised you that I would love you until the day I die" Des meets his son's eyes, and the fire in his eyes is a startling contrast to the tone of his voice. Its almost as if Harry has been pinned to the spot, and he can't move, not even to reply. The silence is suffocating and so damn quiet. "Were you at school today?" He asks, and his eyes say that he knows. He knows, and he's livid. Harry gulps.  
"Of course I was" He replies, fighting to keep his composure.  
"Oh, you haven't been marked in any of your lessons." Des counters, though there isn't any surprise in his tone, just the same devastating monotone.  
"Happens sometimes" Harry provides because, honestly that does happen sometimes. It's not a complete lie.  
Des just stands there, staring hard, cold fire into Harry's eyes until he snaps, and slaps his hand across Harry's face. "Don't fucking lie to your father" He growls, and Harry feels all the air leave his lungs. "Ai" Des shouts when Harry breaks eye contact. "Look at me when I'm speaking to you!" He yanks Harry's head up by the roots of his curls. "Are you sick? Is that why you thought you'd take the day off?" He questions and Harry needs to speak, he needs to answer the question but he can't damn it! Why can't his mouth just co-operate for once! He's slapped again, twice as hard on his left cheek and it's so loud that his ear starts ringing.  
"I... I..." He stutters, but the lump in his chest is rising and he knows that the next time he opens his mouth, he'll either sob or throw up.  
"Where did you spend the day, Harry?" His father asks, suddenly much quieter. He doesn't back up though, he stays thoroughly inside Harry's space and that's more terrifying than anything. He can't breathe. How is he supposed to answer that question? What if his father finds out that just today Harry had been planning his escape? What if-  
"You retarded piece of shit" Des spits when Harry doesn't answer quickly enough. He drags the younger boy by his ear, nails digging into the soft cartilage in a painful grip. Harry is tossed into the counter forcefully, but Des doesn't release his ear quite enough, and his nails slice across his delicate skin. Harry really wants to sob, because he can feel the blood already pooling on his lobe.  
"I'll try once more. Where were you today?"  
All Harry can comprehend is danger. Hurt. Danger. Hurt. His mind is circling, and he wants nothing more than to run. His back is throbbing from where he was thrown against the counter, and he's dripping blood like it's sweat. The punch comes unexpected, landing square to his abdomen. This one makes him recoil, grasping his stomach as the pain ricochets from one injury to the next. He things he might be crying, but anything cold and wet has become one entity, swirling red behind his clenched eyelids. He gasps for air, and waits, knowing the second blow is never far from the first.  
"You weren't in school. Do you plan to waste you education like your mother did?" Des snarls, spitting in Harry's face. "Is that why you skipped school? Because you knew she was in town?" What? She was in town? Why? Did she want to see Harry? Is she alright? Where was she? Harry's stomach simultaneously sinks and twists. Is that why Des was so late to dinner?  
"Look at me." Harry's head is yanked up again by the roots of his hair, and he resists the urge to whimper. "You'll never amount to anything. Engineering is like an art. You have to nurture it, work with it every single day. You have to respect it-"  
"-I don't-" Harry interrupts. Why the hell did he do that? His father's eyes become predatory, and his jaw flexes in time with his fist tightening in Harry's hair.  
"You don't what?" He asks, and Harry knows that no matter what, he's about to get his arse kicked into the next century.  
"I... I don't" He's slapped again.  
"Spill" Shit, he needs to think quickly.  
"I erm… I spent the day in... Birmingham. I... wanted to go look for... l... law books..." Harry stutters, words vomited messily out of him. He just prays that his hesitation is taken to be nerves. Things will be much worse if his father thinks he's lying again.  
"And why the fuck would you want to do that?" Des questions, hand so tight in his sons hair that he's ripping the strands. He doesn't sound convinced.  
"I... I don't want... to be an... an engineer" Harry stutters in reply, and that's the last he gets to say before the fun really begins.

\- - - - - - - - -

The first time that Harry noticed there was something wrong, he was 12 and that breaks his heart sometimes. He grew up thinking it was normal. Thinking he hated it, thinking it scared him, but never thinking it wasn't normal.  
At 5, he'd lie at the top of the stairs, listening to his parents shouting and the glasses smashing. He'd cry, heave on sob after sob, completely terrified for his mothers safety. He'd cry for so long as so hard that he'd pass out, and wake up alone in his room the next morning. His father would be gone. The memories always stayed.  
At 6, his father installed a lock on the outside of his bedroom door to keep him from hearing. To keep him from seeing.  
At 7, he came home from school, and his mothers key didn't fit into the lock on the front door. He remembers sitting in his neighbors house, his mother sobbing on the phone to someone. Begging them to help. Begging them to do something. They hadn't any money. Hadn't any clothes. They slept in a shelter.  
At 8, his father took his mother to court, seeking full custody of Harry. He remembers the police turning up. They asked him too many questions and didn't wait for his answers. Harry hated it. He hasn't seen his mother since.  
At 9, his father brought his stepmother home. He had nightmares back then, and he often ended up in his fathers bed when he got too scared. He remembers climbing in one night, and finding himself sandwiched between the pair of them. He remembers her hands on his thighs. Low on his hips. Her manicured nails scraping patterns on all his sensitive areas. He didn't sleep at all that night, just lay rigid with fear, eyes wide like saucers in the dark of the night.  
At 10, he had a crush. On a boy. He decided to talk to his father about it. The lock on the outside of his bedroom door was used again that night, for the first time in 2 years. At 11, they got a new bath installed in the upstairs bathroom. It was one of those posh ones, the ones with the jets that blast bubbles like a jacuzzi. They kind of scared Harry, and he didn't want to duck his head under the water to wash the shampoo from his head so he took a cup and tried his best. He remembers his father shouting at him, telling him it was no good and he still had suds in his hair. 'go back upstairs, Harry. I'll have to do it for you' his father said.  
At 12, his stepmother had taken over the washing of his hair. He'd leave the door unlocked, and wait for her to come into the shower.  
He was 12 when he realized that something was very wrong. 

\- - - - - - -

No one dares to venture out past midnight, especially this time of year when it's so blindingly dark. It's quiet, too, but the double hood covering Harry's head muffles the world anyway. His face is freezing cold, he doesn't remember the last time he felt his toes at all, but still he sits on the park bench, doesn't move a muscle. Everything hurts, and the dried tears on his face have left sticky trails. There are no stars out tonight, but the cloud coverage isn't thick, and he can make out the eerie glow of the moon. The same moon as always, he thinks. He's under the same sky and the same stars. He half feels claustrophobic, trapped on a planet that should seem so big and yet it feels so small. Every piece of land is owned by someone. Nothing is free. He aches like he's never ached before.  
The last time he checked the time, it was nearing 2am but his phone was running low on battery, and he doesn't want to be sat out here with no phone. Though he might think about it sometimes, he doesn't actually want to die. Not to someone else's hands, at least. He probably needs to move a little, as well, before he gets frostbite or something stupid. He'd hate to return home tomorrow morning beaten up, exhausted, and with no toes. Then he'd really be a burden. He resolves to walking a lap around the park, and eases himself up with great difficulty. His legs are aching and stiff, his thigh badly bruised from being thrown to the floor. His hips are decorated with scrapes and bruises, his ribs are much the same. He has a footprint of bruising on his right shoulder blade that wraps around to the top of his right arm. He knows he must stand, or he'll freeze to death before he returns home.  
Home. Return Home.  
Harry doesn't know if he'll do that.  
He doesn't want to, that's for sure. Especially after the way his father left things. Harry's going to ache for weeks with the state that he's in, and he's not mentally ready in any way to see him face to face. Honest, if his father says one more hurtful thing, Harry is going to have a breakdown. A proper screaming, shouting, snotty-nosed breakdown and he's going to get himself into insurmountable trouble in the process. He no longer has any self-preservation, and he doesn't care who knows. Even if he does go back in the morning, there's no way in hell that he'd stay in the house all weekend. He barely got out before he was locked into his room again. If he gets back in the morning at the wrong time. If he's found out...

Okay, so he can't go back. It's probably safer to live on the streets, he recons. But what about school? He can't just not go to school. And where is he going to find food? And water? He has literally nothing. And what if his father finds him? Its not like he can skip town and disappear, and this town isn't exactly big enough to hide in for long. He'd last two days tops. And that's without the pain that he's suffering. The thought lodges a ball of despair into his throat. One wrong decision at the moment could be catastrophic, and the pressure, the fatigue, the cold, the isolation, the pain in every single inch of his body. It's all so much. Too much. He needs something. Anything. He just want's out. Wants everything to stop, just wants to disappear from it all. He's sobbing, he just needs. Needs.


	7. Tea?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry finally cracks. But it's ok. Everyone needs a little help sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ones a little sad again, or... I guess its... painful. Especially for poor Harry. But Louis is there! And things are starting to get better! Don't give up on me just yet!  
Also, I am well aware that this fic has been on the back burner for the last few months. Life's been kind of crazy, and incredibly hard, so be patient with me?  
Anyway, I'm going to stop rambling now, and post. Enjoy! : ) Love to all <3

It's 6am by the time Harry finally crosses the line of desperation. He's in agony with all his injuries, bitterly cold, and his fear of frost bite is too close to reality. He knows that he has some important decision making to do, and more importantly than that- he really needs to get himself safe before sunrise. Even in the state that he's in, he knows that its ludicrous to stay in the park all night, and the fact that he hasn't made an effort to find somewhere better doesn't sit well with him. If he goes down, he goes down trying. In addition to that though, Mr Deakin, or Dan, as he’d once been told, had told him so many times that should he ever need anything, he should call, so it has to be worth a try at the very least? He calls Dan before he can back out.  
Dan doesn't pick up on the first call, but defeat hasn't sunk in yet, so he tries again.  
"Hello?" Comes a groggy voice, and Harry is suddenly and stupidly shy.  
"Hi, its erm… Harry Styles?" He supplies through chattering teeth, praying to God that Dan was being sincere all those times he tried to reach out.  
"Of course, what's the matter? Is everything alright?" Dan replies.  
"Yeh, I'm... actually, not much is alright to be honest..." Harry stutters, heart racing with anxiety.  
"Where are you?" Dan asks, sounding more awake than before. Harry suddenly feels really bad for waking him.  
"I'm erm... in the park." Harry replies, and he hears Dan curse quietly, and then a ruffling of some sheets.  
"Are you safe?" He questions quickly, and he's sounding a little panicked now.  
"Yeh" Harry replies though he's not convinced he has a lot of time before his toes freeze off.  
"Alright, wait there and call me if anything happens ok?" Dan relays quietly, and Harry agrees just as the line cuts out, relief washing over him. 

It takes much longer than it should have for Harry to shuffle over to the car park thanks to his fathers beatings. He finds that the cold hasn't exactly loosened up his muscles in any way, and he hurts like hell with every move he makes. He hopes that Dan will come quickly- though he has no idea where the man even lives- because with every minute that passes, the reality of the situation becomes more and more real. Harry is well aware that things could go badly very easily now that Dan is involved, but he's thankfully saved from that chain of thought by two bright headlights and the crunch of tires on the gravel. Harry gets in before he even checks that its Dan.  
"Sorry that the car is a tip" Is the first thing Dan says, and Harry almost laughs at the incredibility of it all.  
"Sorry I woke you" He replies, and damn, he sounds dead. His jaw is locked from chattering so long (and also because he received a good beating...) and his voice is shot. He thanks God that the lights are off. He can't imagine how he looks.  
"Don't be. I had a feeling it was coming. I just didn't know when." Is the reply that he gets and honestly, he's too tired to work out what that means at the moment. He just focuses on the stabbing pain in his collar bone, and remaining conscious until the short car ride has ended. 

Dan's house is quite big, or that's how Harry sees it in the dark anyway. He guesses it has to be big for all the children running around it, though Harry supposes that they'll be asleep at... 6:25 in the morning. Any normal person would be, anyway. It's warm and quiet when he enters, and the light almost blinds him when Dan flicks it on.  
"Go through to the kitchen, and I'll be with you in a second" Dan says after a moment of staring at Harry. His face must look pretty terrible to have caused such a reaction in the older man. Harry ignores it for not though, toeing his shoes off before he wanders down the hallway and into the kitchen. Its a beautiful kitchen, large and homely. There are colorful drawings stuck to the fridge with magnets of all shapes and sizes. If he wasn't feeling so shit, then he'd probably smile.  
"Want a cuppa?" Dan asks, reappearing out of nowhere, and Harry almost jumps through the roof. With a gulp, he nods his head, and reminds himself that he's safe here.  
"Please" He replies, and it only comes out a little wobbly. Harry watches as Dan busies himself making the tea, four mugs lined in a neat row. The first three are obviously for himself, his wife, and Harry. He briefly wonders who the fourth is for. One of the older siblings perhaps? What were their names again? His head hurts too much to remember. Except then he suddenly does, just as the eldest of them all walks through the door in sweats and an oversized tee.  
"Did you need me?" Louis asks, rubbing his eyes sleepily. Harry thinks he might be hallucinating momentarily, but then Louis opens his eyes, locks gaze on Harry, and stops frozen in what appears to be a mixture of shock and fear. Harry isn't sure he's ever had that effect on someone before, and he quickly prays that he never will again.  
"Hazzah?" Louis says, sounding a little perplexed. His gaze seems to shift then, mapping every detail of Harrys face in a grimace, and then in turn his state of horrific overdress. "What happened?" He asks, and Harry hates the concern on his face, only because it makes him tear up a bit. He has to avert his eyes before he starts fully bawling, instead concentrating on Dan as he makes the tea. Dan places two cups of tea in the table next to Harry, and then retrieves the other two. He hesitates then, seeming to eye the two boys up before he makes his next move.  
"Are you good to stay with him a second? I just need to run and get your mother" Dan asks, looking to Louis for the answer to some unspoken question. Harry is confused. A little embarrassed. But mostly he's just looking forwards to being warm enough to stop shaking. Louis nods, and then Dan is gone before Harry can determine how or what or why.  
"Hazzah, what happened?" Louis calls once again, after Dan has left the room. Harry honestly doesn't know where to start, and his default is to hide his face, stare at the patterns on his socks. Louis crosses the room slowly, and wraps his arms around Harrys trembling shoulders. He does so ever so gently, but even through three layers of clothing the touch kills his right shoulder. He hisses and flinches before he can stop himself.  
"Are you hurt?" Louis asks, sounding mildly horrified at the prospect, but then he hesitates, like he wants to take the words right back out of the air. Harry knows that Louis' scared of bringing up what was so obviously a horrible evening for the younger boy, and It's certainly no secret that Harry's pretty beat up. Harry is hurt, and Louis is right to presume that, but the very last thing that Harry wants is for Louis to start tip-toeing around him. He’s so, so broken in every single way. He can’t even begin to describe all the ways in which he is hurt, and yet he wants to pour it all out. He privately hopes that Louis will let him do that. And now he’s crying, too, because that’s all he can seem to do.  
“Darling” Louis breathes, and his tone has so many meanings that it’s hard to pinpoint one. It mostly just makes Harry cry harder.  
“Shhhh, it’s okay. I’ve got you, yeh?” Louis soothes, raking his fingers through Harry's curls softly, soothing the boy with sweet words and touches. It's really difficult for the boy to keep it together with Louis being so kind to him, but he forces a deep breath into his lungs in effort, finding that it helps just enough so that he can stop sobbing. As soon as Harry calms, the older boy shifts until they're face to face, taking Harry's jawline into the palms of his hands. His hands are warm, and soft, such a distant contrast to Des' cold, hard strikes. Harry decides that he likes it. His cheeks flush rather ridiculously, as he realizes that Louis is studying every detail of his face. As a distraction, he tracks Louis eyes, following as his pain is reflected in the blue orbs every time the older lad passes over a new bruise or scratch. The boy maps every detail, but stops dead in his tracks at the smudges of blood streaked on the left side of his face, and then his hands shift slowly backwards, thumbs soothing small circles as he goes. His eyes are determined, though. To do what, Harry isn't quite sure, and before Harry can even think about stopping it, his hood is slipped from his head. Now, Harry isn’t oblivious to the state that his face is in. He can feel every swollen lump and bruise, hell, he can feel the shape of his fathers hand where it slapped across his cheek! But his ear is... a little more gory. Harry has left his house so quickly that he hadn’t cleaned anything up. He hasn’t even changed his shirt, and that unfortunately means that there is now dried blood running down the side of his neck and it’s probably more than a little alarming. Apparently ears bleed a hell of a lot, because Harry is very uncomfortable and very itchy on a large portion of his neck and he can only pinpoint that to the bleeding.  
“Holy shit” Louis curses, eyes widening in horror “what the fuck!”  
“It’s not as bad as it seems” Harry tries, but it’s redundant and they both know it.  
“Harry.” Louis says, and he attaches himself to the other boy as gently as he can, seemingly needing the comfort just as much as Harry does. They stay embraced for a long moment, just breathing through the lumps in their throats and absorbing the closeness.  
“I think we need to sort you out before we do anything else, yeh? My moms a nurse, and she’ll know what to do” he decides, yet he still doesn’t let Harry go, just stands there with his arms laced delicately around the taller boy's frame. Harry hopes he stays forever, and clenches his eyes shut tight when the thought sparks another round of tears.  
“Come on” Louis says softly, lips pressed to Harry’s hair. He lets go then, but only steps back enough to grab the tea left on the table, then grasping Harry’s shaking hand between their bodies. Slowly and carefully he helps Harry up three flights of stairs, and into a large bathroom near the end of the hallway. ‘Wait here, I'll see what's taking them so long’ he says, and then he’s gone and Harry is alone again. At least he has his tea though, cradled warm in his hands. He takes a long draw, and feels the warm liquid thawing him out. 

“Hi Honey, I'm Johannah." A kind looking woman says from the doorway. She looks like Louis, unmissable that they’re mother and son. She also has a green first aid bag over her shoulder which she places on the ground in front of Harry. He watches as she lowers the wooden toilet seat, and then guides him to sit down on it.  
"I heard you've had a rough night, eh?" Harry nods, the corner of his mouth pulled into a grimace. Louis comes back into the room then, crouching close to Harry, taking his hand before he has the chance to get nervous.  
“Would you take your hoodie off for me, just so I can check for injuries?” She asks, voice calm and soothing. When he put the thing on, he was so pumped full of adrenaline that he barely felt the pain. But now it’s a different story and Harry doesn’t know how to tell her that his shoulder hurts too badly to raise his arm above his head.  
"Is it your shoulder?" Louis asks privately, his expression calm and kind. It makes Harry feel a little more at ease, reminds him that he's not being judged.  
"Yeh" he replies, fighting hard to suppress the memories of how it got to that state. His hand wanders on it's own accord, reaching up to cup his injured shoulder protectively as he shudders with a wave of unease.  
"Can you raise your arm at all?" Johannah asks worriedly, bringing him out from his reprieve.  
"Haven't tried" Harry admits after a pause, and he tells himself that he's not weak for leaving it unchecked this long. He just really wasn't up for the pain of prodding around the area on his own, and even if he did, it's not like he could have done anything about it.  
"That's fine, honey, I'll cut it off, yeh?" Johannah offers, and Harry tries to thank her for understanding. His smile doesn't quite reach his mouth, but he thinks she gets the message anyway. Cutting the jumper off is the only way to do it. And that's just him being realistic. He really can't raise his arm until he knows that it's not broken or anything. The last thing he wants to do it hurt himself even more. The fear that he's feeling doesn't help either. Its making him tense and shaky, and he becomes more and more focused on the pain with every second that passes, body language curling around to protect the injury from everyone else. He can't help it, really. After the way he was treated the previous evening, he slips into his fear all too quickly. He doesn't even have the mind to stop it.  
"Haz" Louis whispers, and it makes Harry jump. The roaring anxiety that he was feeling suddenly rockets, and he stares at the blue-eyed boy with wide, fearful eyes. Louis shifts then, reaching out slowly, all while demanding that Harry keep locked onto his eyes. Its a distraction, really, and an effective one at that, because the next thing Harry knows is Louis hands grasped around both of his own, warm and steady to cut through the chaos. With several long and shaky breaths, he begins coming back to himself, and before long, he gains his coherency again. He stares at the blue eyes, and remembers. He's safe. No-one here is going to hurt him. He'll be ok. Louis squeezes his hand in agreement to the silent revelation.  
"All done then" Johannah calls, and Harry hadn't even realized that she'd come near him with the scissors, never mind used them to cut the fabric from his body. That's just how entranced Louis had him. (Maybe its also a little to do with the fact that he's exhausted and spaced-out, but that's merely a moot-point to the curly lad).  
“This might hurt, ok? Just squeeze Louis hand if it gets too much, and I’m sure he’ll let us know” she chuckles, and Harry almost smiles. Almost. Then she places a firm hand on his shoulder just above his collarbone and... fucking ouch. The pain is instant, flaring up like there's fucking fire in his veins. He takes a gasp of air, staring down at his feet in effort not to tear up. It's a mistake though, because from this angle, he can see the browning splotches of blood down his front, a particularly dark patch where he’s grazed his left shoulder a little. It looks pretty gross, honestly, and the more he looks at it, the more he feels sick.  
"Sorry, love, but I really need to take a look at it if that's ok?" She asks softly, but Harry can't meet her eyes "Do you think you could take your T-shirt off if we help?"  
"Think so" Harry replies, though he honestly doesn't know if he can. He can't see in a straight line through this pain, and is head is spinning like a top but he steels himself anyway, takes six deep breaths, and then nods to signal that he's ready. He lifts his left arm first, the one that's splattered with blood, and he slowly tucks his elbow into the sleeve. It catches on the newly formed scab, triggering a particularly shaky breath. Louis hands are quick to help, though, stretching the material carefully until Harry has his rest arm out of the sleeve, bunching it up at his neckline. Then they pause. Because now it needs to go over his ear, and that's a whole new ballpark. The silence is deafening, but Johannah places a hand on his, squeezing lightly in encouragement, reminding him that he's in safe hands. He can do this. They just need to do it slowly. He needs to trust Louis to do it slowly and just as he's thinking this, he feels the softest of touches in the space between his ear and his cheekbone, urging his eyes to flicker up at the boy.  
"We can do this." He whispers, eyes peering into Harry's own. They look like warmth and love, and Harry already trusted this boy. He just needed a little reminder. Louis must see his sudden determination because he looks proud, almost, and with one last reverent touch to Harry's face, he gathers the filthy shirt back into his hands. This time, Harry doesn't look away from Louis eyes, not until the damn thing is on the floor at his feet, and then Johannah needs his attention again.  
"You did so well" she begins, eyes mothering and sincere "can I ask a few questions, is that ok?" Harry nods in reply. "If you don't want to answer, or if you want to stop at any time, that's more than alright, sweety, just speak up, ok? We're not here to make you uncomfortable at all, we're just here to help as best as we can. Would you be more comfortable speaking to someone else?" She asks, and Harry has had this talk before. He knows where it's going. He shakes his head.  
"No. I just want to get this bit done." He replies, and he honestly didn't mean to sound so bitter. He really does appreciate everyone in the room, it's just this talk is always a hard one.  
"Done this before?" She asks, and her tone is certainly one he hadn't seen coming. She sounds... angry almost. She sounds like... she knows.  
"Too many times." He replies carefully, urged on by her sudden passion. It feels good to be honest for once. He doesn't question the look of confirmation on Johannah's face. It seems that this family know more than what he thought. Thankfully Johannah doesn't list the disclaimers before she begins again. Harry can recite the confidentiality promise off by heart.  
"Would you be comfortable with telling me who did this?" She says right off the bat. Harry doesn't know whether he's glad or slightly put-off that she started with the big one. Usually they ease him in a little, ask some fluffy nonsense questions before they really get into it. Apparently it's supposed to make patients feel more comfortable. Harry already felt as comfortable as he ever was going to be, so from that he finds the confidence to tell the truth. Doesn't mean he isn't terrified though, this is the big question after all. The big secret. The 'if you tell anyone, I'll be so disappointed in you' secret. The 'you'll make your daddy so sad' secret. The 'I'm so sorry pumpkin, I thought you were your father' secret. Harry shudders. If only she knew how hurt Harry really was.  
"It's fine if you don't, ok." Johannah reminds him softly, and no. Harry is going to do this. He fucking is. He's waited fucking long enough, and like hell is he going to fall at the last hurdle.  
"My dad." He replies, overcome with emotion, and then there's a sudden weight from his shoulders. It feels immense. It's a terrifying feeling, but it's also weightless in the best way. His head is spinning and he feels sick, the only sound he can hear is the heart in his ears. It's like he's having a panic attack on laughing gas. Or is that the night catching up on him? Either way, he's only just holding himself together.  
"Oh, love" Louis breathes quietly, voice all empathy and kindness. Harry takes a breath, and then promptly breaks down. He tries to suppress his sobs, but tears fall heavy anyway. They fall in big clumps, streaming down his face as his emotions all release at once. He feels grief, and pain, and relief, and fear, all running through his blood at once. It's a little overwhelming, yes, but it also feels like the best thing he's ever done. Not... obviously, per say, his sadness is the most prominent thing that he feels, but in a small, hidden, and untarnished part of him, he knows. He just knows that he did the right thing. He's relieved beyond comprehension.


	8. You are my... my only...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The weather is cold. Harry's father is a disgrace. Louis is kinder than anyone Harry has ever met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy moly. It feels like absolutely forever since I last updated this, and to be honest it kind of has been. I'm sorry!!! Things haven't exactly been smooth sailing, and I think its safe to say that life has been kind of crap for the last few months.  
ANYWAY. Back to the point. I'm determined to finish this still, though it might take a (hell of a lot) longer than I origionally intended it to. 
> 
> Thank you very dearly for all your continued support. It means the absolute world.  
Hopefully I see you again soon! Love to all!  
*Dedicated to my most lovely readers (all of you ;-)*

When Harry wakes, he feels like he's emerging from some sort of alternate space-time dimension. The bed he's in is completely unfamiliar, the room is completely dark, he has no clue what day it is, and his body feels like he's been in a tumble drier. He's roasting hot. He aches like he has the flu.  
It takes a lot of convincing for his body to cooperate enough to sit up. Everything feels heavy and lethargic, but he does eventually manage to lift his torso. He would give himself a little congratulatory pat on the back if it weren't for the way his head is spinning like a top.  
When the world finally does come to a still again, the first thing that he can make out is a poster of David Beckham on the wall opposite. His gay mind of course becomes immediately distracted because- hello- abs for days! But then he realizes that he's in Louis room, and he's suddenly and stupidly awkward. At least there's no one around to see his blushed cheeks. There's a muffled chatter coming from below, a mix of Dan's low rumble, and of a chorus of high, soft voices that obviously emanate from the younger girls. Harry hears the sound, and he thinks of a happy home. It sounds like warmth, makes the corners of his mouth lift despite the aching pain in his jaw.  
"Harry!" Johannah calls as soon as he peaks his head around the corner of the kitchen. It took a little while for him to make it down the stairs, due both to his anxiety, and his aching body. All his worries are gone now though, as he's welcomed into a pair of warm arms. "let me get you something to eat, lovely. You take a seat there." She says, guiding him to one of the stools at the wooden island. The space is big but it isn't grand, rather it feels comfortable and well lived in. There are blue and red scribbles on the light wood of the table top, obviously left there by tiny hands. There are several imperfections around the room, in fact, making it almost impossible to ignore the presence of family. Harry loves every inch of the place. He's still busy soaking up the lovely atmosphere when he's startled by a soft voice.  
"Incoming" Harry hears behind him, and that's the only warning he gets before a pair of arms circle his waist. They're careful to be gentle, but they're still solid and warm. Harry couldn't fight the urge to relax into them even if he wanted to.  
"Hi Lou" He murmurs happily, leaning back against his chest. He relaxes there a while, just listening to the sounds of the house with his eyes closed.  
"How're you feeling?" The older lad asks quietly.  
"Rough" Harry replies, whining sadly when Louis begins to pull away from him. "I was comfy" He frowns, turning to pout at the boy.  
"Just getting you some medicine, love" Louis replies, eyes lingering on the side of Harry's face. It sends a twist through his stomach, thinking about the marks that he's sustained in the last day. He knows they probably look a lot worse than they did earlier in the day. That's just how bruises work.  
Thankfully the moment is broken when Johannah places a bowl of soup and a crusty bread roll just in front of him. It looks and smells absolutely marvelous.

"Come" Louis commands suddenly, just as Harry has finished eating. The curly lad doesn't respond for a second, too surprised to work out what's going on. Louis rounds the table, and takes his hand to lead him through the house. His hands are warm and soft, but Harry tries not to think about that too much. As it happens, they end up back on the top floor- Louis floor as Harry has come to understand. The house has three floors, each with its own bathroom, along with several beds to accommodate the large family. The very top floor of the house is designated to the eldest siblings, both Louis and Lottie. Louis leads him into the bathroom, placing a fluffy towel into his arms. He tells the boy to wash, and shows him to some toiletries and soap. Harry thanks him profusely, and proceeds to take a long, hot, steaming shower from which he emerges warm and clean. Once finished, his hair falls in messy towel-dried curls, borrowed shirt and joggers and body wash smelling just like Louis.  
In this state, exhaustion overcomes the lad very suddenly, engulfing him until he feels slow and droopy. His blue-eyed accomplice was ready for this though, already waiting at the edge of his freshly-made bed in soft clothing and a warm smile, so that, when Harry stumbles in through the door, the room is already calm and welcoming. Louis stands, taking the dirty clothing from Harry and throwing it in the wicker laundry basket, guiding the boy into bed without so much as a word.  
"Stay?" Harry calls, voice quiet but nervous. Why Louis would want to stay with him, Harry would never understand, but nevertheless he has a feeling that's just what the older boy wants.  
His question is answered affirmative, though not with words. Louis simply flicks off the nightlight before he peels the corner of the duvet back and clambers in next to him. He tugs on Harry's sleeve until the boy realizes his intentions, and then rolls on his side to cuddle up.  
Its only early in the evening still, the lower levels of the house are still buzzing with activity, and yet both the boys are sound asleep within minutes, Harry's head tucked sweetly into the crook of Louis neck. 

"Harry" Harry hears distantly, just a whisper in his ocean of sleep.  
"Harry" The voice comes again.  
"Haz" His name is called, this time in a voice louder than before.  
"M'what?" He answers, burying his face deeper into his pillow. Its too bright. Its too early. He's comfortable. Whatever it is can bloody well wait.  
"Darling" The voice says, and this time it sounds fond, accompanied by both a breathy laugh, and a jostle of his pillow. So that means his pillow is Louis then, right? Even more reason to go back to sleep.  
"It's time to wake up" Louis explains, bringing his hand up to tangle in Harry's curls. For future reference, that is exactly not the way in which you should wake the boy- that is unless you want him immediately entering sleepy kitten mode that is- and in no imaginable form does it rouse him. It's Harry's medicine for potent and instant sleep. It's only when the older lad gives a particularly rough tug that Harry stirs even slightly. (Not that Louis needs to know, but such a move has a very pronounced effect on the boy. Very pronounced indeed.) Nevertheless, Louis is rewarded with a bleary, wide-eyed Harry peering up at him as soon as he completes the action.  
"Yes?" He asks, voice giving way to a sleep-induced croak.  
"I have work in an hour, love" Louis answers, pushing the wilder curls away from his face.  
"At Miracles?" Harry enquires further, head dropping back down onto Louis shoulder as he speaks.  
"Yeh. You wanna come with?" 

The weather is cold. I mean, what were we expecting really? That's nothing new. For once though, its beautifully clear and crisp. The air is frigid, but the birds are singing, and the frost is sparkling in the grass, reflecting the sun in the most beautiful way.  
Anxiety is still a struggle despite the cheery atmosphere. The very act of being in public triggering Harry in every way imaginable, making him tense every muscle until it burns. He's scared that he'll run into... anyone really. One slip up could literally end him there and then, and God forbid he runs into any of his family... He shudders at the mere thought. Louis does his best to distract the boy, though it's doing very little to combat the intrusive thoughts barging in every few seconds. He does take his hand though, and that seems to relax him as much as he can be relaxed. When the shop comes into view, Harry starts to breathe a little easier, knowing that he can sit in his little corner with a cup of tea and hide from the world is a very peaceful thought. Harry is also grateful that Lottie was kind enough to cover his bruises up for him, feeling a little more comfortable for the mask of makeup that he's wearing.  
"You're doing so well" Louis says, glancing up at the tense expression on the taller boys face, squeezing his hand in reassurance. 

The café is empty like the last time he was here- just Niall at the till, accompanied by a couple of elderly people. It's still relatively early, halfway between breakfast and lunch, meaning that everything is calm and quiet. Harry breathes a huge sigh of relief. After the usual greetings (and a very well concealed look of surprise from Niall) Harry is nestled back into his chair with a steaming pot of tea.  
This calm lasts just ten minutes, before he hears it.  
It happens like this:  
The bell over the door rings, and Louis and Niall go absolutely silent. That was the first warning sign, one that already had a very jittery Harry on edge.  
Then he hears Niall welcome the customer with a loud and blatantly fake gesture. He sounds just as tense as Harry feels, and it makes the curly lad curl in on himself in his chair, pulling his legs under him, and wrapping his arms around himself.  
That's when he hears the voice. It's deep and rough, sending chills straight down Harry's spine. He feels bile rising in the back of his throat, and prays that his father somehow doesn't know that he's here. In such a state of panic, Harry doesn't even know what his father is saying, he just knows that he must keep very quiet and very still. When a broad, tall figure stands at the archway to his little hideout, Harry doesn't even have to look up to know who stands there. He can smell his cologne. He knows his stance like the back of his hand. He doesn't need to look up to tell that the man is beyond furious. Des moves into the room and sits at the opposite end of the two-man table. Harry is trapped.  
"Where have you been?" He asks, voice steely cold. It takes Harry an excruciatingly long time to answer the simple question, so caught between blind panic and trying to come up with a lie that he's forgotten how to function.  
"Nowhere" Harry answers, knowing that the answer will be nowhere near sufficient, and just hoping to bide enough time for himself that he can come up with a suitable lie. Des grunts, and Harry still refuses to make eye-contact with the man.  
"Don't you dare lie to me" Is the older man's reply, and it becomes increasingly clear that he's running out of restraint for the anger he holds.  
"Nowhere" Harry repeats in a panic, jumping in terror as his father's fists slam against the rickety table. They clatter loudly, teacup clattering against it's saucer.  
"Please" He whispers in an attempted plea. He knows that it's useless though, that there's no hope in reasoning with the man. He fears that he might cry.  
"I have no time for your bullshit. Tell me where the hell you were, or I'll force it out of you" Des growls, physically restraining himself now, clenching his fists and lowering his voice. "Were you with your mother, the useless slag of a woman?" He furthers when his son hesitates in fear. Harry wouldn't know his mother if she tapped him on the shoulder.  
"No!" He exclaims quietly, completely dumb-founded at the prospect, finally snapping his eyes up to his fathers. Des only meets his answer with a leveling stare, hiding all of his emotions as a part of the game he plays.  
"We're leaving" Is the mans only reply, and it sounds more like a demand than anything else. It sounds volatile. Harry feels his anxiety sky-rocket, heart dropping into his stomach in absolute terror. The prospect of going anywhere with this man is enough to trigger a severe anxiety attack.  
"No" Harry calls, just as Des is standing. The boy knows immediately that this was a severe mistake. Des takes Harry's wrist in a crushing grip, and yanks the boy promptly to his feet. His son yelps at the action, clutching the injured wrist to his chest when his father lets it go.  
"You fucking dare" The older man threatens though gritted teeth, and then marches swiftly through into the main part of the café. Harry follows obediently, but as soon as he emerges, he's stopped by the God-send that is Niall.  
"Harold! Come here a second mate!" The blonde calls loudly, leaving no room for negotiation before he ushers the taller lad over. "I have something you have to see, man, won't take a minute I promise" He requests, bustling Harry towards the staff door. Des makes to argue, but Niall is quick to shut him down, shoving Harry into the room with an apology thrown carelessly over his shoulder. Harry knows that Des is very, very careful about his reputation. He'd never be caught being abusive towards Harry in such a public setting. That was before though, and at this moment, Harry doesn't think the man is any more than one second away from strangling his son in broad daylight. The thought is blinding, so much so that all his other senses become detached- all he can focus on is not being killed by the man.  
Next he realizes, he's in someone's arms. They're familiar and comforting and safe, but that's all he knows until a voice finally captures his attention.  
"-have you love. Can you listen to me?" Louis commands softly.  
"Louis" Harry breathes out shakily, chest rattling on a suppressed sob.  
"That's it, lovely, listen to my voice... take nice deep breaths" Louis guides, rubbing his back comfortingly. Harry begins to sob properly then, coughing and shaking as he's carefully lowered to the floor. He ends up in the smaller boys lap, curled up sideways with his head in the crook of his neck. His fists are clutched to Louis shirt, holding onto the boy like he's his last hope to live. He feels like a child. 

Louis whispers soothing words into Harry's hair for a long, long time until he's finally calm enough to support himself again. Even then, the younger boy is never quite able to stop the tears from falling from his eyes. They seem to be unstoppable at this point, now that he's finally let them go. His terror is still present, spiking again when he realizes that he still has to go back out there and confront his father.  
"We called the Police, Haz, you don't have to see him ever again if you don't want to" Louis reveals once he notices the boy in his arms start to panic again.  
"We're going to be alright"


	9. Given the chance...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, clarity is the most important theme.  
I want to make it clear that this chapter is triggering. Please be safe, and never forget that you are loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I can't believe I'm nearly done with this fic! It's crazy to think about, really.  
This chapter is heavy again, and I know it's far from perfection, but I'm proud of it nonetheless. I hope you all enjoy! I have something a lot more cheery planned for the next chapter thankfully. It'll be our last encounter with this AU, so look forward to the fluff! No sad endings around here thanks!  
Anyway, back to the present. Before I accidentally spoil all the surprises.  
I have exams coming up in a few weeks, and I'm hoping to update again before then, but if not, don't worry. I'll finish this soon. For now, enjoy!  
Lots of love to you all : ) -C.J.

Silence becomes deafening after that dreadful day. Life becomes a battle that Harry must fight, every single second spent in varying states of desperation, just trying to find himself in the middle of an almighty mess.  
Paperwork comes in wads so thick that it doesn't fit through the letter box. Most of it is court proceedings- all written out in legal jargon that his head is too scrambled to understand. The only sense he can make from it all is that his father wants to kick up as much fuss as possible. No surprises there, and yet with every new letter, Harry feels worse and worse.  
If Harry had thought he felt guilty whilst living with his father, that's nothing to match the enormity of the guilt he feels once he'd left. He suffocates in the guilt of it all- hardly allowing himself to sleep and eat for how selfish he fears he's being to his sisters. He thinks himself to be a horrible person for choosing to start a new life without his family. The thought builds in his chest, thrashing around like a violent storm. Everything feels dark, like much more than he could ever take. 

_ Harry was lying on Louis bed, sobbing like he'd never cried before. He couldn't breathe through it, a weight crushing his chest and a lump so large in his throat he was gasping for air. His arms were grasped around his body, muscles straining to wrap tighter, to keep himself from falling to pieces.  
It was pitch black outside, late enough that the house was silent, it felt big and quiet and empty. Louis was out.  
It'd been a tough day, with most of the family off doing this-that-and-the-other, leaving Harry mostly to his thoughts. Harry would never complain, was grateful even for a day without someone hovering over him, holding him together. He needed some space sometimes, just to let himself breakdown. It was healthy. He was sure of it.  
It didn't end healthily though.  
Harry hadn't been thinking clearly, and he'd been helpless to stop it.  
All he could think about was his father. Kept imagining his heartbroken expression, locked away in a cell and all because of Harry. He imagined his father crying, lonely and lost after his own son had turned him in to the Police. He thought of the family that he'd torn apart. Of his fathers reputation, and the humiliation that he was sending him through. He thought of all the times his father had told Harry how much he loved him, and of all the happiest moments in his childhood. All those times that it was just the two of them- when his father was happy, laughing at Harry for being a goof, when his father was beaming with pride because Harry was given an award for his excellence in Maths. He thought of the ice cream they'd bought that night on the way home from school, and of his fathers enthusiastic chattering.  
He thought of that, and fell apart.  
He felt like a monster for breaking a man. Knew his father loved him, and knew that he'd broken his heart.  
He couldn't bare it.  
Next he knew, his scars were open. He was stood in the bathroom, door locked and heart pounding as he watched himself bleed down the drain. The stinging helped his mind to clear, but seconds later, and his shaking hands had betrayed him again, opening more scars with every move they made.  
By the time the blood made him cry, he'd done more than enough damage, and he rushed to clean the mess he'd made with tears falling from his eyes. _  
__

Through it all, and regardless of how horrendous Harry was feeling, The Tomlinson family was always there for him. They gave him something that no one else could ever match. They loved him unconditionally, healed him in ways that remain incomprehensible even now. Thanks to them, he's healed wounds that he didn't even know he had.  
He's not sure he'd have lived through everything, had it not been for them.  
They had protected him from as much as they could, only explaining what they felt they needed to. Dan had sat the boy down one quiet afternoon, told him how his father had come to be arrested that fateful day. Apparently as soon as Harry was taken to the kitchen in Miracles, the rage that had been building in Des had finally reared its monstrous head. He went wild with it, and though no-one will tell Harry exactly what he said/did, he knows it must have been severe. He'd been subjected to that rage before, countless times. He'd felt it in countless ways, over and over again every time his father had felt like it. Harry knew that it was ugly and vicious, and that no amount of sensibility could convince the man to calm himself once he'd let loose.  
The Police were there quickly. Harry knows enough to know what that means. 

_ There was more blood than he thought there was, making him panic about where to hide the dirty tissues. As he thinks back to it later, he realizes that he could easily have blamed the whole thing on a bad nosebleed. His mental state wasn't anywhere as clear as that in the moment though, so he did the only thing he could think to do- he stuffed it into the small bin, shoving some extra toilet paper on top to cover it up.  
He stuffs the freshly cleaned blade into the back corner of his cosmetics shelf. Prays that no one will notice it's hiding there.  
Harry's heart sinks when he realizes the severity of what he's just done, and the consequences that he'll have to face for it. He'll have to wear long sleeves for weeks, not to mention the burning every time he bumps the wrong spots. He'll have to focus really hard on hiding everything from everyone, and he hates that he must keep yet another secret. He knows that if anyone realizes, then they'll be watching him even more closely. He knows that if they notice, they'll explain to him why he shouldn't do this. Even more than that, he hates that he knows they'll be right. It's not as easy as that though, not now that he's opened the floodgates. It's exponentially harder to stop than it is to start, even though he knows logically that this isn't sensible. He doesn't want pity. That's the absolute last thing he wants. It makes him feel sick, just imagining their concern for him.  
He stumbles out of the bathroom alone, hiding his sobs in the collar of his hoody._

_ __ _

The whole thing had lasted well over 6 months, and by the end of it all, he had told and retold his story what felt like thousands of times. He'd told it to Judges, the Police, Court Guardians, Child Protective Services, CAMS, A therapist, the list just goes on and on. People turned up at random, everyone looking to speak to him for whatever reason, everyone gathering evidence, and checking and referencing every single thing that he said so that it could be used in court. Exhausting was just the first thing that it was. The process drove Harry's anxiety through the roof, and don't even get him started on the pictures he had to supply as evidence for the physical abuse. He still has anxiety attacks about them.  


_ __ _

_ _ _ Harry is sure that Louis knew. He's sure that he knew from the second that he walked into his room. Harry was asleep finally, had cried himself silly until the early hours of the morning, and had finally passed out. He half remembers Louis coming into the room. Remembers the soft light being turned on, and then the shuddered breath that the boy took when he'd turned to look Harry's way. The curly boy was so far out of it that he didn't respond at all, just lay half asleep with his eyes shut, curled up on his side too tired to really wake up. Cheeks wet with tears, face blotchy and swollen, shirt ridden up to expose some of his darkest secrets. There's no way Louis didn't know.  
But the next few days were busy. They had meetings and deadlines, the first court hearing nearing impossibly quickly. Harry doesn't think Louis forgot about what he'd seen- that would be ludicrous, Harry can see the questions and the worry in his blue eyes, and yet the older boy doesn't say anything. Doesn't bring it up. He does hold Harry that little bit tighter though, like if he lets go, Harry might disappear. _  
__ _ _

_ __ _

Perhaps one of the only people that he chose to open up to was Jay. She'd become his rock through the whole thing (she became the protective mother bear that Harry had learnt her to be with all of her children, and had sat holding his hand through all of his most difficult meetings). She was always defending the boy, making sure he had someone backing him at all times. She was there with him every step of the way, from the filling out of the paperwork, to the nitty gritty interviews and the home-visits.  
It was beyond any words Harry could have thought of what she did for him. Even when Harry was being forced to say things he never thought he'd have to say out loud, she'd be there, and Harry could pretend it was just them. She'd never have stayed, if Harry didn't want her there, and in that, she gave the boy just a little bit of control. She gave him so, so much more than he could ever begin to quantify. Harry will spend the rest of his existence in debt to her kindness. He's convinced that nothing he could ever do would possibly re-pay her even slightly. Hell, she even gave up her home to a stranger! After Harry had arrived that night, he literally didn't leave. He's slept in Louis arms ever since.  
Harry felt like she knew every single inch of him.  
She never knew about his cutting though, and even in just a week, the problem spiraled quickly. 

It's later that week, and Harry is struggling. More than he does on a normal day. He can't even bring himself to fake a smile when Jay looks his way. It's an eyes set downcast sort of day. It's a shoveling food down his throat even though he's tempted to throw it all back up sort of day.  
He goes straight to the bathroom after he is excused from the dinner table. He feels like he's suffocating. When he gets there, he isn't even sure why he's there, so he stands in front of the mirror above the sink, and just stares. Just stares at the wall behind him.  
It isn't long before he feels the self-loathing bubbling up.  
He has a blade in his hand even quicker.  
Soon enough, he's burning again, pushing himself to feel as much of the pain that he's caused as he can handle.  
As he leaves the bathroom, he's just glad that he has a dark hoody to hide behind. He wraps himself up in it, pulling the hood up over his curls to shadow the red rings around his eyes. He pulls the sleeves down over his fingers, and stuffs his hands into the pocket.  
Louis is sat on the bed when he opens the door, and he's looking up at Harry with all the hurt in the world.  
"Come here" He pleads, looking as close to tears as Harry has ever seen him. A fresh lump grows in Harry's own, forcing the boy to swallow harshly as he curls into the older boys lap.  
"Darling" Louis breathes, tightening his arms around his boys waist. "talk to me"  
And so that's what Harry does. He presses his chest to Louis, sat straddling his lap and hiding his face in the older boys neck, and tells him absolutely everything. He begins at the very begining, recounting how his father had abused both him and his mother when he was young. He details how he'd been kept under lock and key, forcefully separated from his mother while she was beaten and bruised. How he was kicked from his own house at age 7, and how his father had won full custody of him not long after. He tells Louis how his step-mother had mistreated him, how his father had controlled his every move. He told Louis absolutely everything he could think of, everything from the small stuff to the catastrophic stuff, going on and on and on until the words dry out, and he can't think of anything more to say. He passes out from exhaustion, wrapped up in steady arms and the liberation of finally telling all of his darkest secrets, falling asleep before Louis even has a chance to respond.


	10. Sweet shining things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry shares some sweet, lovely, reminiscing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
I honestly can't believe that we've come this far! Round of applause for Harry, thank God he's finally gotten his crap back together again. (Side note: Louis is the King can I get a hell yeh?)  
Anyway... I just wanted to say one final thank you to everyone that's read this AU of mine. Writing this has been a weird mix of healing and escapism, and I'd be lying if I said it was easy. It was not. So thank you all for being so kind and patient.  
I hope this final chapter lives up to everyone's expectations, but mainly I think this story was well overdue some hardcore fluff.  
P.s. How are you? Hope you're well x  
Que the romance:

Curled up in Louis lap is the sweetest little curly-headed menace. She's asleep, the picture of all youthful innocence, looking all warm and cuddly. Harry is astounded.  
Juno had never been one for daytime naps. Or nighttime naps. Or generally anything that required staying still for more than 30 seconds at a time, (those are definitely Tomlinson genes) and by this hour of the day, she usually has Harry in a breathless mess. He will valiantly deny with every bit of stubbornness that he is not getting old. He is most definitely not, but when Juno gets into her squealing giggly mood... he does secretly wish that he was a couple decades younger.  
So when Harry walks through the conservatory door, and sees the pair of them sleeping peacefully together, he can't quite believe his eyes.  
"Well that's just unfair" He whispers, thinking back to all the times that the two-year-old had pulled his curls out for trying to get her to nap. He winces just thinking about it. With a relenting sigh, he resigns to tidying the room whilst he has the chance. God knows she can be a mess sometimes (all the time). Harry doesn't want to know what the brown smudges are. He was a father before he was a grandfather, and knows all too well that you should never presume. Ever. Especially when it comes to questionable smudges. 

_ - _ - _ - _ -

They were stupidly young and naïve when they decided that they wanted children. Of course, they both were sensible enough to put it off until they had their own place, but that didn't stop them from their 3 am whispering, gushing about their future in their post-coitus haze, all wrapped up together and smiling like it was the greatest thing they could ever wish for. In many ways it did turn out to be just that. They had a sweet little flat not far from Louis parents, just three beds, and one bath. It had the tiniest kitchen, and an overgrown garden, and to them, it was their slice of heaven. It took maybe a month for them to decorate fully (nursery and all) and not one second longer than that, they were on the phone with the surrogate agency, confirming that they were ready to begin the process.  
Logan Mathias Tomlinson was born just 12 months later, awarded to two teary-eyed, wide-smiled new fathers. Curly headed and blue eyed, Logan was an angel. Well, he at least he was one until he hit 9 months old and learned to crawl. He certainly found his way into trouble very quickly after that, but his dimpled smile safely relieved him from most scolding regardless.  
Next came Loila, or as she is more officially known, Loila Elizabeth Tomlinson. She was unmistakably, and most definitely a Tomlinson.  
It was before they even began the process that they decided to leave who the father was as a secret. Well, not a secret as such, rather they just opted not to know. To them it wasn't important. So they might never have known who exactly was the father, but they never needed it confirmed with her sleek brunette hair and her high cheekbones. She had the sass of an angsty teen by age 3, and for her 6th birthday had demanded a brand new iPhone. (Which she certainly did NOT receive until she was actually in her teens). The very first time Harry even held her, she had scrunched her face up and stuck her tongue out at him, so there was never any doubt.

_ - _ - _ - _ - _

"How did this even get in here?" Harry mutters under his breath, crouching to pick up the novelty Grinch sock that Louis was gifted some years back. He'd lost one of the pair at some point and the last Harry saw the remaining sock, he accidentally dropped it down the back of the dresser in the master bedroom. How it's suddenly here, (more importantly why?) Harry can only pin on Louis. His husband never really did loose his spark.  
Once everything has successfully been gathered into his arms, the curly man tracks through the house to place everything where it belongs. He returns to the conservatory only to drape a warm, thick blanket over his two precious sleepers, and then settles into his chair for a cupper. It's nearing the late afternoon now, and they'll want dinner in not too long, however a few minutes of quiet rest never bothered anyone.  
Their tabby Milton seems to agree, bathing in the afternoon sun with sleepy eyes. 

\- _ - _ - _ - _ -

Somehow, Louis gets even more beautiful with every day that passes. Harry can't understand how he does it, but his salt-and-pepper stubble paired with a crisp dark suit and those bright blue eyes never made a more beautiful picture.  
His husband has been working his new job title for near a month now, having been promoted manager in a nearby hotel. The job was only supposed to be a pass-time, something that paid enough so they could afford to take the kids out once a fortnight, and anything more a bonus. Lou had worked hard in his position though, and despite his limited hours, he'd forged a good relationship with his boss. It was inevitable really, that he was promoted. Louis might not believe it, but Harry does.  
They throw a party for the four of them, buying popers and party hats and cup-cake mix for the special boy himself. Logan and Loila work hard at a poster for their Daddy, getting marker all over themselves and glitter in their hair. They surprise him with his favourite dinner and sprinkles on his cupcake (and if Harry gets the kids to sleep extra-early, then that's only a good thing). Louis cries that night, long after the house is peaceful and quiet. He curls into Harry's side, choking on his thousanth declaration of love for the light of his life. He doesn't know what he'd do without him, without his heart and his smile. Harry too cries at this, curled around eachother and giggling at how sappy they both are. 

\- _ - _ - _ - _ -

In the end, they decide that they're just made for eachother. Because why else would they be here? Entertwined like vines, hearts bursting with love for their families and love for life. Even after all they've been through. They're still smiling in the dark. 

Fin.


End file.
